Dear Wired Magazine
by seriousish
Summary: I Never Thought This Would Happen To Me But… If people who work with computers have funny ideas about dating, imagine what someone who lives inside one would think. SamXQuorra
1. Chapter 1

Yesterday, Sam Flynn hadn't been responsible for much more than a rescue dog. Today (that is, the day after _fighting in a war_), he was not only on the board of a Fortune 500 company, but in charge of guarding the savior of humanity. But at least Quorra was feeding Marvin. That was a load off.

At least Alan was letting him take things slow. Earning his stripes in PR, which was 90% of business nowadays anyway. It was still pressure, but he'd always been good with that. He just showed up, took notes, and dropped the occasional reminder that people didn't like seeing the same commercial twice in the same ad block. The hardest part was resisting the urge to just cut out and do something stupid. His body felt like it was tamped down, wearing even something as casual as a sports jacket, doing paperwork, crunching numbers. This was stuff his dad was good at. Not him.

Not yet.

So he got home and there was Quorra. Which helped a lot. He could relax around her. It felt like the adrenaline just disappeared instead of piling up, waiting to be burnt. So far, she hadn't left the house much, just walking with him to the corner store and back. She was content to page through his library, get her jollies that way. Really, who could've guessed a bookshelf would be such a chick magnet?

Soon. He'd get Encom sewn up, then he'd find a bigger place, then he'd show Quorra the world. He just hoped she was really as patient as she seemed.

"There's a fair," she said when he came through the door… actually, a little before he came through. "Can we go?"

Sam kicked off his leather shoes and tossed his sports jacket somewhere far away. "Sure, when?"

Quorra looked down at the papers she was going over. She'd turned yet another piece of makeshift furniture into a workspace, covering his card table/dining set with push-pins, Post-It notes, and Legos. She made a ring of text around a weirdly striped Lego sculpture, her hand seeming to work independently of her body, then clicked her mechanical pen and set it in the pocket of her vest. "There. I'm done with social security."

Sam paused with one arm in his aviator jacket. "You fixed social security?"

"It was just a matter of streamlining the process so there's an improved chance of mental correlation between net good over individual cost."

"I'll draft a letter to my Congressman," Sam said, picking up the keys to the Ducati out of the candy dish. He jangled them. "You wanna drive?"

"No, I like it more when you do." Quorra had her helmet waiting on the loveseat. It was bright pink to go with her pastel ensemble. She was crazy about colors that weren't black, white, and blue.

* * *

Sam really had to stop thinking about how Quorra wrapped her arms around him and rested her head between his shoulder blades as they rode. She was a program. He was thinking about sex with an exe file. Really, now.

An incredibly cute exe file, but still…

* * *

Sam put down the kickstand, looking with Quorra out at the fairgrounds. "Alright. Whaddya wanna do first?"

Quorra just stared at the lit-up Ferris wheel, the big top rippling in the breeze, the million-and-one things to do that she'd never done. "It's so beautiful."

No. He was not going to do that thing when he looked at her face, as incredibly cute as it was, and said 'Yes, it is.' He wasn't Matthew McConaughey.

"Yes, but it smells funny."

She looked at him and laughed. Like he was Matthew McConaughey. She stifled it with a fist over her mouth, since she was still sorting out when was and wasn't an appropriate time to laugh. "Sorry. I would like you to win me a stuffed animal in a game of thrown projectiles first. It should be fluffy."

* * *

This was ridiculous. He had won in gladiatorial combat with a light disc, why was he having this much trouble knocking over a bunch of cans with a ball?

"Try to make the ball spin at a rate of at least four revolutions per seconds," Quorra suggested, kneading her hands together as she watched.

He missed again. Slapped another five down on the wooden counter. Eyed the man in the booth. "I am winning a member of the animal kingdom with stuffing inside it."

* * *

"I don't believe one of the victory conditions of thrown projectiles is to hit the operator in the crotch, grab an elephant, and run," Quorra said, clutching her elephant, running.

"That game was rigged," Sam replied. "In here."

They ducked into a sideshow. The only light came from a glowing cylinder with an "alien fetus" inside. Sam thought it looked more like the result of a one-night stand between a Cabbage Patch doll and a blowtorch.

"Okay," he said, after they'd switched jackets and security had probably drifted off. "What next?"

* * *

Quorra ate her cotton candy with intense concentration, seeming to precisely gauge the size of each bite she took, then hitting it with a set amount of chewing, then swallowing. Sam just had a corn dog.

"I do not understand the designation," she said. "I believe this consists mostly of sugar, food coloring, and air. Neither cotton nor candy is involved."

"It looks like cotton."

"But why's the thought of eating cotton appetizing? And what is the pink color meant to imply? Is it significant that it is a feminine color, like my—"

"Tell you what," Sam interrupted. "It sounded like a good idea at the time. If you're confused by anything here, it's a safe bet that to someone, somewhere, it sounded like a good idea at some time."

"Yes. Your father told me that. He said many of you aren't aware you have a function. I believe your function is to find your function." She took another bite. Rip, chomp, gulp. "Have you found your function, Sam Flynn?"

He looked at her. Damn. He was totally being McConaughey. "Yeah. I think so. I mean, this whole thing, Encom, you, saving the world… it feels right."

"It's a good idea at this time."

"Who knows? Maybe it'll be a good idea forever. Like pizza, or se—Seacrest."

"If you were going to say sex, as your conversational harmonics indicated, you didn't have to change it to an appreciation of Ryan Seacrest. Your father explained User sexuality to me." Quorra winced along with Sam as she realized how that sounded. "He provided several young adult novels that dealt with the topics of menstruation, teen pregnancy, dating, monster slaying—"

"So you know where babies come from. Duly noted."

"Yes." Quorra nodded self-consciously. "Wombs, right?"

"Right."

Up ahead, the Ferris wheel was chugging along. Quorra grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him onto the end of the line. It was a short wait. Kids these days didn't appreciate a good Ferris wheel.

"Do you think there will be heating inside?" Quorra asked. "It's cold."

Sam looked at her. Between the yellow sleeves of her blouse and her blue gloves (as soon as the world was saved, he was getting her on What Not To Wear), her skin was goosepimpled. He took off her jacket and added it to his.

"Oh!" She colored. "You gave me your jacket to keep me warm. I didn't have to tell you to do that. But it's my jacket, since we switched jackets to fool the guards. What does that mean? It means I'm babbling."

"Just so long as you're not cold anymore."

"No! Not at all!" She worked her lip under her teeth. "I might be warmer if your arm were around me."

He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to his side. "That better?"

"Yes… can I babble?"

"Anytime."

"The Grid is cool, not cold. I think the biggest difference is the wind, since we don't have it there. It makes things colder than they are, or hotter, but what I like how warm this place is. Next time someone asks about the sun, you should tell them it's warm. Like you're warm. Core body temperature is thirty-seven degrees Celsius, but oral measurement is less, thirty-six-point-eight Celsius, higher than skin temperature, and anal measurement is slightly higher than that, sometimes as high as thirty-seven-point-eight Celsius. And there's fever, hypothermia, hyperthermia, and even the time of day can affect the degree of body heat."

"What about eating red peppers?" Sam asked.

"I think your body temperature is completely precise. I don't believe I'd like to feel anyone else's body heat. That's without even taking into account complexion, clothing choices, and saliency. All of which are ideal, in you."

God. Not only was he McConaughey, but she was Sandra Bullock.

"Right, Quorra, I'm not upset, and this may just be because you've been talking about how hot I am, but is this a date?"

"No. Men have to ask women out on a date. Unless you're the woman and I'm…"

"Quorra, you wanna go out on a date?"

"A nonlinear request to go on the date we're already on? We're being _subversive_."

"Yes. It's very subversive for two heterosexual white people to ride a Ferris wheel."

* * *

"I had a lovely evening," Quorra said when they got home. "The dusk was also very nice, but the twilight was marred by evading that security guard."

"I don't know how he recognized us. We switched jackets." Sam got the door for Quorra, who beamed in appreciation as she stepped through.

He followed her through, grinning despite himself. He hadn't enjoyed a computer program this much since Oregon Trail.

Inside, Quorra turned around and slapped him.

He blinked. "Can you read minds?"

"Slap me back!" she said enthusiastically, offering up her chin like a prize-fighter.

"Uh, no. I'm not slapping you."

She slapped him again. It stung even more this time.

"Stop that!"

"Then slap me already."

"Quorra, I don't know what books you've been reading or what chat rooms you've been visiting, but you've gotten the wrong idea—"

She slapped him. He groaned and gave her kind of a love tap on the cheek, which was immediately followed by her putting her hands to his face, putting her lips to his, and getting all USB drive with her tongue.

"Did I do that okay?" she asked.

"That was… I'd say that was okay, yeah." He nodded a few times.

"I was very anxious to be successful at your mating rituals. Did I forget anything? You won me a stuffed animal, we ate cotton candy, then we slapped each other a few times… I missed something, didn't I?"

He kissed her again. Matthew McConaughey would be proud.

"No, no," she said, pulling away. "Kiss duration was not optimal and tongue placement was decidedly inexact, that was not the perfect kiss, why was it so… nice? Did I miscalculate?"

"Quorra, you can't calculate love… I said as I realized I was in an 80s movie about robots. Just trust me. This stuff isn't an exact science. You wanna sit down on the couch and watch an old movie with popcorn? That's gotta be part of the mating ritual."

"No. I believe we should move on to sex." Quorra started to undress.

"…what?"

"Intercourse," Quorra elaborated. "Specifically, coitus, although my research has familiarized me with the sexual styles of missionaries, dogs, and pegs."

"Quorra, you're acting like Seven of Nine in a bad fanfic. Could you slow down a minute and stop taking off your clothes?"

Quorra stopped to look down at her bra. "Yes, my research indicated that many couples have relations while attired in underthings, although I was unclear of how they managed to penetrate in such a state. You should be naked though." She reached for his fly.

"Let me guess. Your research consisted of the TV and Netflix Instant View?"

"I have also downloaded erotic videos from the internet." She shoved him down onto the couch. "**Get ready to take every inch of my vagina, little slut.**"

"Oh boy… listen, Quorra, this is a bad idea. Just trust me on this. Anyone who calls it a vagina in the middle of foreplay isn't ready to have sex."

Quorra smiled. "We're having foreplay?"

"No, I mean—" Sam paused. Quorra had started moaning, and she was eerily convincing. "Please stop that."

"We should play jazz music."

"No."

"And light candles!"

"Quorra—"

"I already tailored the bedsheets into an L shape so they'll cover my torso, but only your lower body."

"_Quorra!_ One, you should've asked before you did that. Second, sex is… well, it's special, for girls anyway. You shouldn't do it just because… why are you doing this again?"

"Because I like you."

Sam felt a wave of guilt passing through him. Feeling guilty for not having sex with a girl. Quorra was already changing the world. "Okay, that's a good reason, I am very likable, but you should be absolutely sure that you really like me and you really want to have sex before you give me one inch of your vagina." Oh God, mental image… "That's what my dad did. Before I was born, Kevin Flynn and my mom went on a lot of dates, they found out lots of things they had in common, they learned they really liked each other, and then they talked to a stork and he brought me to them."

Quorra laughed loudly before clapping a hand over her mouth. "Was that an appropriate occasion for laughter?"

"Possibly. It was a pretty lame joke."

Quorra settled on a smile. "Very well. We shall have sex at a later date when I like you more."

"In the real world, we just say 'Not tonight, I have a headache.'"


	2. Pizza Night

For once, Sam came back from work exhausted, like he'd spent the day in a riot rather than pushing pencils. Through a combination of threatening, bribing, cajoling, and an uncomfortable amount of begging, he'd finally cleared the Encom board of the jerks who were trying to turn it into the Evil Empire. And more than half the people on Alan's list of replacements had said yes. It hadn't been easy, finding programmers with business savvy, but most of the ones he did find respected Kevin Flynn to much to stand by while his company became the next Microsoft.

And some of the youngbloods seemed to hold _him_ in high regard. They might also have thought they were going to be playing basketball in the office with him and announcing projects by jumping out of airplanes (which did sound awesome). Sam decided to let them down easy on the fact that it was hard work running a multinational corporation. Just so long as he beat Facebook to the punch. Zuckerberg collected young programmers like they were Pokemon.

Then Sam got home… although the junkyard was starting to feel less and less like a home, he'd have to ask Alan where young corporate princes were supposed to live… and Quorra looked up from a card game and smiled at him and he felt like he could run the Boston Marathon.

But first, he'd take off his shoes.

Sam plopped down on his faithful old couch, where he'd spent the night during so many AMC monster movie marathons, and kicked off his shoes. Tried to. The damn leather things clung on, not at all like a good pair of sneakers, and he moaned and dropped his head back against the cushion. Later. He'd break in his shoes and save his father's company and find a nice place to live and maybe take Quorra back to the circus. Yeah. That'd be nice.

"So how was your day?" he asked.

"I've been playing Solitaire," she announced proudly. "I won three hundred and forty-seven out of five hundred games. The trick is to shuffle the cards so victory isn't arbitrarily impossible. I've honed it down to a ritual which I think should be included with every deck of cards to cut down on the frustration of an unwinnable game of Solitaire."

Quorra. Changing the world. Sam grabbed a cushion and added it to the back of his head. Maybe she had the right idea. Sometimes you just had to take a day off and do whatever.

With a hum of delight, Quorra won her current game, then excitably rushed over to Sam to bend down and unlace his shoes for him. Sam almost asked if she was undressing him for sex (understandably, that episode had been at the forefront of his mind), but then decided if she was, that was cool. As long as it didn't involve his fingers in any way. He was halfway to carpal tunnel syndrome as is.

"And you?" she asked, pulling off his socks.

"I spent the day trimming golden parachutes. You'd think these guys slew the Minotaur, the severance packages they want…"

Quorra nodded and moved off, holding his shoes and socks at arm's length. She dropped the shoes in the bin and the socks beside his tennis shoes and her boots. He didn't bother to correct her. She'd get the hang of it eventually.

"Anything good on the tube?" Sam asked, eyes closed.

Quorra sat down beside him, in that weird way she had of kneeling on a cushion instead of fully committing her ass to it. "Sam, is your memory corrupted?"

"No, I haven't been drinking," he said, half-awake.

"I ask because on August 12th, we were eating pizza from Papa John's on 12 Sycamore Avenue and you said 'You think this is good, you should try a homemade pizza sometime.' And I asked when sometime was. You said 'Let's do it next week.' Since then, it has been six days, twenty-three hours, and thirty-three minutes. Were you referring to a binary assignment of weeks, set in months, or simply the time unit of seven days, for instance, a week that starts on Wednesday and continues to span two separate months?"

Sam sat up, interrupting her with a yawn. "You know what? Let's do it now."

Quorra gave him another Boston Marathon smile. "That sounds nice." Her brow furrowed. "But you were referring to a time unit of seven days, correct?"

* * *

It was possible that Quorra had been obsessing over this all week (the time unit of seven days), because when she opened one of the cupboards that Sam had earmarked for "those plates by the sink I may wash someday," there was every conceivable pizza ingredient ready and waiting. Even Canadian bacon. Sam would've thought you needed a license to buy that, kinda like how the FBI kept an eye on fertilizer that could be used to make bombs.

Sam got Quorra started on making the dough while he assembled the proper toppings. Nothing too fancy… cheese and pepperoni. Maybe they could introduce Quorra to the various toppings one at a time, week in and week out. She'd love that.

Tomatoes, too. You couldn't have a pizza without tomatoes. Sam grabbed one from the garden Quorra had started (he really needed to find a new place before she put down roots too), washed it off with soap and water, then began to slice it into fine layers.

"Am I being too rough on it?" Quorra asked as she kneaded the dough. She looked a bit concerned that she was violating its civil rights or something.

Sam turned to tell her about tossing it-_damn!_-cut his finger.

"Sam!" Quorra cried.

Really trying to watch his language in front of Quorra, not because she would be offended but because she would probably demand the etymology of any curse word he used, Sam stuck his finger on his mouth. He didn't think any of the tomato slices had been contaminated, but he tossed the last one he sliced just in case.

Then Quorra was _right_ in his face, grabbing his hand and wrenching his bleeding finger clear of his mouth. "Let me see… oh. My! You're bleeding!"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, less than helpfully.

"Alright, don't panic, I've read about this!" Quorra looked around frantically, settling on an oven mitt, which she pressed against the 'wound.' "Alright, we're going to need gauze, iodine, and bandages!"

"Quorra, relax. Stop panicking."

"_You_ stop panicking!" she shot back. "I think I can sew it shut. I knitted half a cardigan, but stopped because I kept pricking my finger. Wait, what were you doing before?" She grabbed his finger out of the oven mitt. "I could be infecting you with germs! Oven germs!" She stuck his finger back in his mouth. "There! Is that a home remedy for cuts? Is it homeopathic? You know homeopathic cures don't work, and studies which show that they do were typically biased or otherwise unscientific!"

Sam popped his finger back out of his mouth. "Quorra, it's _fine_," he stressed. "Look, it's already stopped bleeding."

Quorra wasn't taking any chances. She nearly bit down on his finger, taking it into her mouth. Sam was a bit speechless after that.

"Has it stopped bleeding?" Quorra asked, muffled by the fact that she had a finger in her mouth.

Sam put his free hand on her shoulder to hold her still as he pulled his finger free. "Sorry, but that's a fetish I could really do without." He wiped his finger on his shirt. "See? Not bleeding. Good as new. I've gotten worse cuts shaving."

Quorra gasped and scrutinized his jaw, seeing if there were any gaping wounds she had overlooked. "You may need to get a tetanus shot."

"Quorra. Listen to me, you need to calm down. No one dies from a little cut."

"But you were bleeding!" Quorra protested.

"Yes, and now I'm not. Trust me, I'll live." Sam went back to cutting the tomato, just to show her he wasn't crippled either. "What's with you, anyway? You're normally a bit more… Mr. Spock than this."

"It's just… you were bleeding. People bleed before they die. They exsanguinate and they die and they can't be rerezzed, ever." Quorra paced frantically, as if the words were more than just spilling out of her, they were pushing her this way and that along the kitchen floor. "And I know you don't think I love you, not really, but at least we can agree that I like you a lot and it could be something more but if you die, it will never be something more, it will just be… incomplete. I'll be incomplete."

Sam wasn't sure whether he should stop her from pacing or what. She was walking so hard and so fast she looked like she could hurt herself, just bash her head in against a wall. Christ, he was sounding as silly as her. "Quorra…" She stopped by herself, forcing herself to, actually holding herself to the fridge like it was a life preserver. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"Your father didn't want to leave you either. But he did. He made a promise he couldn't keep."

Damn it. Damn it to hell, he missed the Grid. At least there, you could solve a problem with a light disc. How was he supposed to comfort her when, yeah, he could get plastered by an eighteen-wheeler the next time he stepped out to take Marvin for a walk?

Breathing deeply, Sam stepped over to Quorra, turned her around gently by the shoulder, and wrapped his arms around her. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but he couldn't think for a moment of her body, or how warm she was now that she had flesh and blood instead of data. All he could think of was how tiny she felt, shuddering a little in his grip but that just made him hold her tighter.

"I'm not my father," he said. It was a lame answer, but the only one he had.

"This feels nice," she said, with her head against his chest. "What is it?"

"Huh? Oh, it's called a hug. People do it to… to remind each other that there's someone else, even when they feel alone."

"A hug," Quorra said, with the tone that meant she was filing another bit of knowledge away.

Stiffly, she pulled her arms up and then encircled him with them, trying to best gauge how to return the embrace. Sam patted her on the back to show she'd succeeded.

"I don't know why you need me to save your world when you have this," she said.

Sam grinned and rested his chin on the crown of her head. His girl. How cheesy could she get?


	3. Time To Change Your Facebook Status

Sam had come home to find Quorra in lots of interesting positions. Sunbathing, for instance… indoors. Watching a pot to see if it boiled ("They were _wrong_."). And today, forming her body into a pretzel on the living room floor.

"Quorra, I hate to tell you this, but if it were possible to jam your face into your own groin, guys would've figured it out a long time ago."

"I'm seeing if I can blow a raspberry on my stomach."

That'd been his second guess. They were getting to know each other better all the time.

"Could you call a time-out? I'm getting a hernia just looking at you."

Quorra unfurled like Samus Aran coming out of a morphball. "You don't have to worry. Your father taught me Yoga."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Next time you want to seduce someone, you might want to mention that."

Quorra's eyes slanted in confusion. "That your father taught me things?"

Sam went to get a beer. He needed to wash the taste of that out of his brain. "So. Raspberries. What do they do, cure cancer?"

"No, I'm pretty sure that has to do with parsnips. I saw a woman giving her baby a raspberry and he laughed. If this doesn't work, then I'm not ticklish. That's that."

"You've tested this? Of course you have."

"I already tried my fingers and a feather. (You need a new pillow.) But I guess I'm just not ticklish. And I really wanted to be." She pouted. Quorra had a pout like a Disney character.

Sam was going to regret this, he just knew. "Quorra, you're probably ticklish, how could you not be? It's just that people can't tickle themselves."

"They can't? Other people have to do it for them?" She laughed and snapped her fingers, which she probably thought was a thing. "That's even better!" She pulled her shirt up. "Tickle me?"

Sam slugged back his beer. "Nah… I don't like where this is headed."

Quorra scoffed and inched her shirt higher. "It's not sexual. I bet you and your guy friends tickle each other all the time!"

"We don't."

"Then what was I watching online?" Quorra cocked her head to think. "Wait! I've got it!"

"What you were watching online? I'm not sure I want to know."

Quorra held a finger-gun on him. "You're ticklish."

"Ha!" Sam then repeated himself in case she missed it the first time. "I'm a guy. Guys aren't ticklish. Especially badass guys like me who jump off buildings and have run-ins with the law and… snowboard!"

Quorra dropped her shirt. "You're completely ticklish."

"Lies and hearsay."

"There's only one way to find out."

Sam's fight-or-flight reflex warmed up like pizza in a microwave. "To ask me, like you just did a second before I said no?"

"Okay, so… two ways." She lunged. Sam dodged to the left and laughed when Quorra bounced off the fridge. Then he ran because she already was. He rolled under the card table and she ran over it, but Sam didn't come out the other end. He doubled back, charging over the couch and jumping the pool table on his way to the front door. Quorra threw himself to tackle him, but fell short. He hurdled her grasping arms to throw open the front door.

"You're either tickling me or getting tickled!" Sam heard as he saw Alan on his front step, fist poised to knock.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No. Not at all." Kevin Flynn had his grin, Sam Flynn had his deadpan.

Quorra got up from the floor. "Hello, Alan Bradley. Nice to finally meet you."

"I told her about you," Sam said quickly, not wanting Quorra to get into his father and Tron and all that.

"I wish I could say the same." Alan gave Quorra's abruptly offered hand a shake. "But if there was ever a woman who was indescribable…"

Quorra beamed, perking an eyebrow as Sam as if to say 'See? He thinks I'm pretty.'

Sam rolled his eyes. He'd never said she wasn't. He was not that good a liar.

"So what brings you here this time of night?" Sam asked, trying to keep a stab of sudden, irrational jealousy out of his voice.

"Just some papers to go over. Things that can't wait until morning. And that matter we discussed earlier."

Sam acquiesced with a nod. "Hey, Q, don't you have that thing?

Quorra's lip buckled at losing out on the prospect of observing Alan, but she got the message. "Yes. I have many things to do while you have your secret talk." She left with her head held high.

They paved over the odd incident, Sam taking Alan's coat and sitting him down on the couch, getting them both beers and plopping himself down in the easy chair.

"Quorra," Alan said questioningly. "That's an interesting name."

"She's not a stripper," Sam said fast.

"So I figured. The economy's bad, but not bad enough for a girl who looks like that to have to take her clothes off to make money."

"Oh, is she good-looking? I hadn't noticed."

Alan spread his hands in good-natured surrender. "Easy there, sport. I wasn't insinuating anything."

"No, no... my fault. I've been on edge lately."

"But if I was insinuating something, I'd tell you that when your father took over Encom, he had a lot of attractive young women in his orbit too. This was before he met your mother, of course."

"I'm not sure I should be hearing this."

"And they weren't after Kevin for his sparkling personality. Which isn't to say your dad didn't know how to treat a lady…"

"Oh God, you're still talking."

"How would you kids put it? _I ain't saying she's a gold digga, but I ain't seen her with no broke_-well, I'm not allowed to say that word."

It was too much. Alan's rapping and the idea of Quorra as some sort of _hoochie mama_ double-teamed Sam's funnybone like twins at a bachelor party. He exploded with laughter and Alan laughed along with him, somewhat awkwardly. After a few minutes, it stopped being quite so funny.

"Trust me, Alan, money is the last thing Quorra's interested in."

"I hope you're right about that."

"I am."

Looking at the certainty in Sam's eyes, Alan nodded. Sam had a good head on his shoulders, and if he thought Quorra was a good bet, Alan would put his money on the table too.

He opened up his briefcase and handed Sam the papers.

* * *

Quorra sat in the hammock Sam had made her. Her hands were still dirty from the pruning she'd given her plants, but she didn't want to wash them just yet. So they twined together in her lap as she looked up at the stars and listened to the waves in the river, so noisy and alive and bright when compared to the water in the Grid, even though the physics were exactly the same. "Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…"

Sam came out wearing a quilt pulled around his T-shirt. Something his grandma had made him, he'd told her once, and promptly shut up before she could ask what a grandma was. "Whacha counting?"

"The stars." It wasn't that she minded Sam and Alan having their secrets. But Sam always seemed to have a reason to push her back when they were getting too close. It was starting to feel less like he was protecting her and more like he was protecting himself _from_ her.

"You're counting the stars?" he reiterated.

"Not really. I already counted them, now I'm just double-checking."

"I'm sure you had it right the first time. Get up."

"Why?" Quorra asked, now ticking off the stars with her fingers.

"Because I want you to come with me."

"Where?"

"To see something."

"What?"

"It's a surprise."

"When?"

Sam leaned against the post that the hammock was anchored to. "Mad at me, huh?"

There was no point pretending otherwise. He knew emotions a lot better than she did. "You're going to have to introduce me to him someday."

"Who, Alan? Put it off, spare yourself the fishing stories."

"He's part of your life," Quorra insisted. "Like I want to be."

Sam knelt down and placed his car keys in her hand. "Come with me and I'll show you which part of my life you are."

* * *

Quorra liked Sam's car. It was so new and fast it reminded her of her Light Runner. Six different computers inside just to keep the User safe and comfortable. She wished Kevin could see it.

Sam had thought to teach her how to drive on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but she'd quickly shown him she could drive circles around him, on the Grid or off it. It was just the traffic laws she had trouble with. Why did yellow lights sometimes mean slow down and sometimes go really, really fast?

"Get off the highway here," Sam instructed, preemptively gripping the oh-shit handle. "Please use the off-ramp."

"I thought you liked extreme sports."

"_Sports_, not Quorra-assisted suicide!"

Quorra took the off-ramp at 90 MPH.

"That's it, I'm getting you a Prius!" Sam yelled. He gulped down his nervousness. "Take a left on Sycamore. And if there's traffic, just _be patient._"

"I wouldn't have to be patient if you would install some missiles on this crate," Quorra snapped.

Sam smiled to himself. The ride over had perked Quorra up, and that was worth a few near-death experiences.

"Be honest," Quorra said, skidding the car into parallel parking. "Did you and Alan tickle each other?"

* * *

Sam led her through the lobby of the hotel they'd parked at, his arm around her shoulders. It'd used to be that he held her hand just to make sure she didn't run off, thinking some random act was an assault whose victim she had to rescue (Sam had had a hard time describing why assault with a felt-tip pen was less likely than a woman _wanting_ Gerard Way's signature on her breasts). Now he liked having his arm around her when they walked, even though she'd promised not to scissor-kick anyone without asking him first.

They took the elevator up, and as soon as it emerged from the lobby, Quorra gasped. The glass elevator looked out on the atrium of the hotel, and just standing in it was like piloting a Light Jet.

"Come on," Sam said, tapping her on the shoulder. She had her forehead pressed to the glass, looking down at the diorama-tiny world of concierges and guests in the lobby. "The ding means it's time to go."

He led her down a hallway to a door, which he opened by flourishing a keycard through the slot. Inside, the city lights shone through floor-to-ceiling windows to light up black leather furniture, chrome and glass tables, and other masculine furnishings.

"What is this place?" Quorra asked.

"Ours," Sam replied. "If you want it."

Quorra took a few tentative steps through the apartment, feeling out the environment like a gladiator about to play a Game. She took in the sprawling rooms, the pleasantly neutral smell. It was chilly, devoid of the warmth of Sam's home, but she could rewrite it, reprogram it, fill it with memories-_their_ memories.

She kept walking, only stopping at the vast windows. Outside, the city was lights and shadows… so much like home, but the orderly procession of energy was just a higher form of chaos, more bright and loud and _warm_ than the Grid could ever be.

"There's a rooftop garden," Sam said, leaning against the window next to her. Ignoring the city laid out before them to focus on Quorra's reaction. "And a yoga center downstairs, I know you're into that. They even gave me permission to put in an arcade on the gallery floor. I just have to call it a modern art exhibit…"

"It's perfect," Quorra said, turning to him. Pulling him into a hug. "Thank you."

"Thank Alan, he pulled all the strings."

Quorra wasn't letting go. Sam almost tried to pry her loose, but then he remembered… this was the first time she'd ever initiated a hug. So he rubbed her back and petted her hair and let her feel out how their bodies mingled until she stepped back and looked into his eyes and he could've kissed her. He really could've.

"We could spend the night here," Sam said, then kicked himself. "I mean, if you'd like to make up your mind, your bedroom's through there, it's a four-bedroom apartment, in case we have guests…" He sat down on the armrest of a chair, which squeaked like leather. Since it was. "And the furnishings came with the apartment. We can replace them if you don't have a vendetta against cows like these guys do."

"It's fine. I love it!" When Quorra raised her voice, it echoed. "Wow. I bet you could fit every book in the world in here…"

"Maybe if we left out the ones about vampires," Sam said.

* * *

Sam laid in bed, trying to ignore his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. He probably should've asked a few questions about the last tenant. Not that he minded, it was just that the air conditioning was off in the "vacant" apartment, so he was sleeping on top of the sheets to stay just warm enough. In just a T-shirt and boxer shorts, he could see the lingering bruises from the Grid. That one from crashing his Lightcycle before Quorra rescued him; another from the fight at the End of Line Club, it was nothing compared to Quorra's arm; and a final mark that looked like an angry jellyfish. He'd somehow picked it up during the explosion that crashed the Grid. It was like his father had hit him, just once.

The door opened and Sam jerked up, reaching for a weapon… a Swiss Army Knife sitting on the nightstand, one with an actual blade. He'd had it since he was fifteen, but before the Grid, he'd never really cared if he misplaced it or not. Now he didn't leave home without it.

"Hi," Quorra said, and Sam sheepishly put away the knife. "Does that have a corkscrew in it?"

"Yes. What's wrong? You wanna go home?"

"No… this is home. It's just…" Quorra sat on the bed. "Back _there_, I could hear you through the walls. Snoring."

"Sorry. Thankfully, the walls here are actually walls, not tissue paper with delusions of grandeur."

"I didn't mind. It was just aural input. But I miss knowing you were so close."

"What, what are you—" He sputtered as Quorra pulled herself onto the mattress, sinking down next to them. "Quorra."

"I know. You're supposed to wine and dine me and buy me something shiny before we can do that. I don't want that right now," she assured him. Then, turning onto her side: "I want this. I want to keep seeing you." She laid her hand on his chest, telling him it wouldn't go any further. "I want to keep feeling you."

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay. If it'll help you sleep. We can get a second bed in here after tonight, be like a sitcom in the 1940s."

"After tonight?" Quorra asked, patting his chest.

"Get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow. Moving day."

Quorra wiggled into her pillow, smiling at him as her eyes shut.

Sam headbutted his pillow, waiting for his body to get the message that no, it would not be getting to do anything fun just because there was an attractive (_the_ attractive) woman in bed with it.

After a few minutes, Quorra stirred in her "sleep," moving her hand down until it reached the band of flesh with his shirt rode up on her belly.

"Quorra," Sam muttered.

She gave him a tickle. He laughed.

Quorra sandwiched her hands under her pillow and committed to sleep. "I knew it."


	4. Moving Day

"Uh-uh."

Sam reversed himself, since he'd obviously just upset his core demographic of Quorra. With him back in place, Quorra let out a satisfied, if muffled, "Mm-hmm…"

Sam forced his eyes open, although it felt like an uphill battle through how comfortable he was. He suddenly felt like he had too many limbs. There was his right leg and his left leg, then another pair sandwiched between the other two. And his arms seemed to be brushing against more arms, which were softer and hairless and a little cool, like glass.

He finally got his eyes open to find Quorra's disarrayed hair covering his face. It'd grown out since she'd left the Grid. Her head was scrunched up against his chest, ear pressed to it like a stethoscope while her upturned smile seemed to capture the same vibrancy of his now-racing heart. Her arms and legs tied him up like the ribbon on a present.

Seeing how close she was, Sam jerked away involuntarily. In response, Quorra groaned her wakefulness, opening her expansive eyes so slowly she might have been taking in her world one particle at a time.

"Morning," she said, breaking into a bright smile at the sight of him. Nestled in his arms with the sheets pulled tight around her, she looked snug as a bug.

"Morning," Sam said back. "I hate to break it to you, but I think you're the little spoon."

"I'm cool with that," Quorra laughed, throwing herself so Sam rolled onto his back and she laid across him. Sam felt like the mattress was quicksand, he was so comfortable. How did she do that?

"It's just weird for me, because when we went to sleep, we weren't any sort of kitchen utensil."

"Oh." Quorra looked abashed, then grew serious. "You were having a nightmare. You woke me in the middle of the night." Her voice dropped even lower. "Your father used to have them too. But this time I knew what to do. I put my arms around you and held you tight and you settled down." Feeling him stiffen, she rolled off him and into a sit by the bedpost. "I'm sorry if that was wrong. You just sounded so… like you were suffering, and I don't like that. I can't just watch you be in pain."

Sam wrenched himself up and turned, letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed. Quorra had seen one of his night terrors. Just perfect. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Do you have a lot of nightmares?" Quorra asked. She persisted: "Is that normal?"

Sam jumped up from the bed, pretending he hadn't heard her. "C'mon, let's rustle up some grub. I'll show you how to make French toast."

Quorra stayed perched on the bed as Sam threw on some clothes. "In France, toast is served with grubs?"

* * *

After breakfast, and a second breakfast because Quorra liked French toast so much, they drove back to the garage. During the night, a U-Haul truck had been deposited in front of the apartment. Sam didn't have enough stuff to warrant hiring movers – for a long time he'd lived his life just waiting for Encom to have enough of him and press charges, freeing him up to go on the run with his laptop and Marvin. Now here he was, putting down actual roots. It was a good thing Quorra was completely oblivious to all that.

First off was clothes. Everything Sam wore fit into an antique steamer trunk his grandparents had left him. The books went into cardboard boxes. Sam set aside the box his PS3 had come in for books he thought Quorra might like. There were about a dozen Jules Verne books she hadn't gotten her hands on yet.

Then came gadgets, odds and ends. Sam had a few CDs and a few DVDs, but only a few. He liked to keep his music on his MP3 player and was content to watch movies while they were in theaters, not over and over again. These days there were too many resurrections of old intellectual properties, with too much special effects and too little plot. How could anyone enjoy a movie like _that_? All said, his multimedia tastes fit into one box.

The TV, most of the furniture, and the rugs he decided to leave for whoever had the apartment next… with an apologetic note, too. House-training Marvin hadn't been easy. What would be easy would be to buy better versions of everything. Take Quorra shopping… which was taking his life into his own hands, given certain feminine stereotypes and Quorra's Quorra-ness, but at least it wouldn't be boring. And a nice TV, big as they made them, with surround sound so he and Quorra could stay in and watch something from back when Hollywood knew how to make movies. Like The Princess Bride…

Okay. He was a total girl. He had admitted that to himself and he was okay with it.

Finally, the video games. His one weakness. He liked to support the industry, so he never rented when he could buy, and if he didn't like a game, he tended to chuck it in his closet. He finally started making good use of the Goodwill box that he'd set aside, as anyone who's ever had a mother will do. In a minute's time, he'd thrown in a dozen Doom clones, some movie tie-ins he really should've known better than to buy, and a House cash-in for the casual gamer that allowed players to solve medical mysteries in the grand tradition of Dr. Mario. Quorra examined it for a minute. With the box just about full, Sam pried it away and put it inside before taping the box shut. "You wouldn't be interested in that."

He sent Quorra for another box to contain every Japanese RPG that contained spiky hair, speechless main characters, or an obsession with trapping small animals. That was a weird phase he'd gone through. He picked up another jewel case, wondering if it was for a PSX game or maybe a Dreamcast game… a Dreamcast he'd have to keep on general principle…

Wait. Stormtroopers. He loved Star Wars since he was a kid; dreamed of traveling to alien worlds, fighting with glow-y weapons, learning from wise old masters, rescuing beautiful princesses, ducking into strange little cantinas filled with weird creatures; not to mention fighting faceless, black-suited menaces and manning the gun-port of a spaceship to defend it from enemy fliers.

Hmm…

It wasn't one of the latter-day LucasArts games, from when they'd started to kinda suck along with the rest of Star Wars. This was original trilogy, Dark Forces, Kyle Katarn and Jan Ors and the Rusty Crow. The Force was strong in it.

Quorra came back, holding out a box for the CD, but he clutched it to his chest. "Babe. This is Dark Forces. I grew up on this game. I must've killed a thousand Stormtroopers…"

"K-killed?"

Oh. Crap.

Quorra's eyes angled with suspicion. "You killed Programs?"

"No, no, I mean…" Couldn't have been. His dad never would've let him so much as play Tetris if a single block had a Program behind it. Right? "I didn't even know there were Programs back then."

"So that makes it alright? That you killed _my friends_ for _fun_?"

"Not _your friends_, you would never even have heard of them…" That was the wrong thing to say. Quorra stormed into the other room, tossing the box over her shoulder when she realized she was still holding it.

Sam followed after her, dropping the treacherous game onto the ground. "Quorra, hey…"

She was sitting, but not in her usual Zen fold. Instead she'd sat down on a footstool, not caring that it was too small for her, probably not even realizing it, her legs bunched up angrily under her, head twitching from side to side as she tried to think the problem away. He reached for her shoulder, hoping some skin contact would calm her down.

Quorra jerked away, bunching herself up again. "Don't! I've decided to be angry with you, Sam," she informed him. "Very, very angry."

Sam tried not to laugh. As patronizing as it was to say so, she was pretty cute when she was angry. If it weren't for the fact that she _meant_ it, that this was enough to wreck their relationship and send her spiraling off in God only knew what direction, he'd actually be able to enjoy the whole kerfuffle.

"That's too bad," he said somberly. "How long are you going to be angry with me?"

"I don't know. As long as I feel like it. I may also direct my feelings of anger toward you." She looked at him disdainfully. "You may have thought from certain statements I've made or physiological reactions I've had that I find you attractive. That's not the case. In fact, you're very extremely unattractive."

Physiological reactions? Sam nodded. "That's hurtful."

"It was supposed to be!"

"So I guess you want to be alone now?"

"I don't know," Quorra said, confused. "Do I?"

"Yeah, I think that's how it works."

"Alright then." Quorra hugged her legs. "I'll be alone now."

Sam went to find his phone. He knew every couple had to have a first fight. He'd just prefer it weren't about whether or not he'd been committing genocide in his off-hours.


	5. Moving Night

He'd known this was coming. It was inevitable, like a recurring nightmare finally coming true. Sam Flynn, juvenile delinquent, rebel without a cause, and two-time X-Games watcher, was working late at the office, doing paperwork.

"Well, isn't this a sight for sore eyes," Alan chortled, strolling through the door, pleased as punch to find that his friend's old office, after ten years as a supply closet, had been refurbished and given to Kevin's son.

"Don't gloat," Sam grumbled. "Let's just assume I'm the spitting image of my old man and move on."

"Actually, he used to Indian-sit on his desk." While on the subject, Alan took a seat in front of the desk, which Sam was now eying uncertainly.

"I've been napping on my dad's ass-groove?"

"You've been napping?"

Sam shuffled some papers. "These aren't exactly Dennis Lehane."

"So let me get you someone from the secretary pool to ease the load. What are you looking for, anyway? These files must be twenty years old."

"I don't know," Sam admitted, back to paging through his research. "Something after Dad took over Encom, _soon_ after." He looked at Alan. "It might've seemed… spacey."

Alan laughed. "To me, everything Kevin did seemed spacey. He was bursting with ideas, talking about metaphysics and philosophy while I was just programming. But there was something he was adamant about. In the middle of pitching new games, he disappeared. I found him in the arcade. He loved that place, but he'd locked the doors. I only got in because Lori had a key. He was coding like a madman. I barely understood it, but it was beautiful. Elegant. Instead of having the computer run a new routine for every enemy, he set it so the routine kept going, just shifting from one unit to another when the player destroyed one. It made the system run much smoother, which made the arcade machines last longer. But he didn't charge a cent for the upgrades. Paid for it all out of his own pocket, and released the code onto the Usenet. I can't think of a game out there that doesn't use a version of it. Why do you think he's so revered?"

"I never really thought about it," Sam said truthfully. He hadn't. His dad was awesome… why wouldn't everyone love him? Then Sam had gotten older and it'd been so much easier to live replacing that love with bitterness.

"I'm sorry," Alan said, rising. "I didn't mean to dredge up old memories."

"It's fine. He's gone. I'm cool with it."

"I must not be up on my slang. I didn't know that was the sort of thing you could be cool with."

Sam felt a headache start to buzz behind his eyes. He didn't want to deal with this right now. He wanted to get back and fix things with Quorra. That was all. Scowling, he drummed his fingers on the desktop. "What'd my father call this code, anyway?"

Alan cast his head down as if saddened. Maybe it was the past weighing down on him. "Rerez."

* * *

When he got back to the garage, Sam saw that Quorra had continued her angry girlfriend routine, dumping his stuff out on the lawn. Since they were moving, that would actually probably save him some time. He went in to find Quorra taking out her frustration on the wall… with a Frisbee. It didn't seem to be working as well as her old Lightdisc.

"My dad and I used to play with that," he said.

Quorra dropped it. "I'm not speaking to you."

"So I noticed."

"And I think you should sleep on the couch," she added, protectively stationing herself between Sam and the game station.

"We don't sleep together!"

"So?"

Sam angled his hands pacifyingly. "Listen, Quorra… in all the stories you've seen about a girl angry at a guy, doesn't he always get a chance to make up for what he's done with a grand romantic gesture?"

"How could you possibly make up for what you've done?"

He grinned. "Get in the car. I'll drive."

* * *

Flynn's Arcade was exactly as he'd left it, which seemed almost blasphemous after everything that had happened deep inside. One day, Sam would have to reopen it, filling the old place with the latest games. Maybe taking a page from dear old dad and adding a new one based on his adventures. But none of that mattered just then.

"You shouldn't have brought me here," Quorra said, her usual look of doe-eyed wonder falling into dismay. "This was where I breathed fresh air for the first time. You shouldn't sully it."

"I'm not." He unlocked the doors and ushered her inside. She tapped her foot impatiently, a practiced gesture, as he threw the breakers. Despite himself, Sam felt excitement overtake him as the arcade games started up and the jukebox was cued. This would work. It had to.

He asked for her help to move the Tron game aside. She looked pointedly away. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?" She kept looking away. But she followed him when he went down the staircase.

"You confuse me so much," Quorra said, bitter and hurt. "I want to hurt you, but I don't like you being in pain… I don't like feeling this way. I want to feel the way I did before, but I don't know if I can."

"Just have a seat," Sam said, indicating the two chairs.

She didn't. "Are you going to digitize us?"

Sam was already seated in front of the console. "Yup."

A note of concern entered her otherwise stringent tone. "Sam, the men in your family haven't had the best luck with this technology."

"Relax, I'm not a complete idiot." Sam took out his cell phone and set it on top of the console. "If we're not back in one hour, this'll send a message to Alan explaining the situation. He'll call in the National Guard."

"What could they do?"

"Beats me, it's just an expression." Sam typed in the laser test command and hovered his finger over the Enter key, looking back to see Quorra was still standing aloof. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

"I probably shouldn't," Quorra said, sitting down.

Sam pressed Enter.

* * *

All of a sudden they were on a new Grid, one Quorra had never seen before. It was much smaller and more primitive than the one she had grown up on—there were still Bits floating around. The whole thing resembled a skyscraper under construction, a DOS-green lattice in which levels floated like slices of other realities. On the floor they were on, part of a Star Destroyer was tethered. By the lights of their suits she could see Programs maneuvering in zero-G around and into the level, placing power-ups and doing costume checks on other Programs dressed as Stormtroopers.

"Let's pick up the pace, ladies," one Program yelled, checking off items on a clipboard. "The game just booted and we are _not_ ready for render! C'mon, this is the _first level_!"

"At ease, fellas," Sam said, walking up to the foreman. "I'm just giving Quorra here a backstage tour."

As soon as he saw Sam, dressed in slacks and a T-shirt, the foreman fell to his knees. "User! The User is among us!"

The others stopped what they were doing to follow suit.

Sam sighed. "I thought I told you guys not to do that."

The foreman wouldn't look directly at him. "It's in our programming to serve the Users."

"Well, it's against _my_ programming to impersonate a deity." Sam broke off to scowl. "This has gotta stop before I hit the prequels."

Just then, Quorra pulled him aside. Sam noticed she held her lightdisc in one hand, ready for trouble. "You've been here before?"

"Sure. I needed to check it out beforehand. You know, find all the right nightspots, scout out a nice place to eat—"

"Alone!" One look at Sam confirmed it. "How could you be so stupid! What if there'd been another MCP here, or a virus? I could've lost—you could've been killed!"

All the old fears were rushing back, so Sam clasped her arms to reassure her. "You're worth it." Before she could process that: "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."

Taking her hand, he showed her how to disable the gravity constraints so they could ascend through the Grid until landing, upside-down, on a plane of cyberspace. It, at least, was familiar—one enormous polygon. Sam led her along the bottom and, with practiced ease, flipped around the corner and onto the top. Quorra followed suit, into a break area of sorts. Programs wore their codes on their sleeves there, drinking energy and cuing up cutscenes on large projectors. In a corner, a particularly large Program with his coding glowing almost blindingly bright was exercising, lifting weights of pure data.

"Quorra, this is Dreb," Sam introduced, patting Dreb on the back. "He handles the boss fight. This guy must've killed me a hundred times!"

"You got me in the end," Dreb replied. "And on Hard too, back when that meant something. The Nintendo days…"

"Wait, so…" Quorra blinked. "You didn't derez?"

"No, it's all smoke and mirrors," Sam said. "Their sprites gets blasted, they go off and prepare for the next stage. My dad called it rerezzing. He invented it after he got digitized."

"Oh," Quorra said. "So I shouldn't be mad at you?"

"You can keep going if you want. Never seems to stop some people."

"No, no, I… I'm very glad you're not a mass murderer." Quorra smiled. "I didn't research what I'm supposed to do now."

Sam pointed at her grin. "That's just fine." He chuckled, relieved. "Say," he said abruptly, swiveling to Dreb, "I was wondering… did you cheat? Because when I was fighting Rom Mohc, I could've sworn you hit me with shots that no Imperial officer could make. "

Dreb spread his arms wide. "Hey, I'm the bad guy. It's what I do!"

Sam raged playfully. "I knew it! Next time we play, I'm using cheat codes!"

"Oh, I'm so scared!"

Sam put an arm around Quorra's shoulders. She was still standing a bit apart, her back turned, brow furrowed. "You wanna get back? I really don't want Alan to find out this whole… thing… from voicemail."

"Yes, but…" Quorra turned, pushing his arm away. "Sam, I was wrong to be angry with you. Even if you had killed Programs, you had no way of knowing. I should've realized that. I should've understood… I'm supposed to be better than this." She walked a few steps away from him, hands on her hips, frustrated with herself.

Sam waved off Dreb's gesture of assistance to follow Quorra. "Hey, people have emotions. They're irrational. They make mistakes. It happens."

Quorra turned on him. "I'm not people. I'm not even human. You shouldn't have to—"

"Trust me, you're a lot more human than a lot of people I've met. Don't sweat it." His hand on her arm again. Inside the computer, her skin wasn't cold, wasn't warm. It was like water after you'd been submerged for a while. Just… there. He wanted to get her back to the real world. No matter where she'd been born, that was where she belonged.

Quorra smiled, but a little sadly. "Your father tried to teach me that. Forgiveness. Serenity. I still held so much anger for what CLU did to my people. When I fought the Black Guards, I enjoyed derezzing them."

Sam shrugged. "I was right there with you. And I wasn't exactly a Quaker."

"You did what you had to do, but you can—you're—you're better than me. These things just come to you. I have to work at them and pretend and guess and—I'm never going to be like you. I spent hundreds of years with Kevin and I still don't understand him. I don't think I'll ever understand you."

She was downcast. Sam put his fingers on her lukewarm chin and raised her gaze up to his. "Do you want to?"

"Part of me. But another part likes it when you surprise me. Like this. You didn't have to do this for me. You could've just told me… I know, I know. A grand romantic gesture."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, starting to feel a little embarrassed by the whole thing. "I didn't even have to fight any gladiators. It was nothing."

"When people have done something wrong, they should try to make amends. I should've trusted you. You're a good person. Let me do something good for you."

She flipped her disc so it was held horizontally on her hand, like a waiter holding a serving tray. Quorra closed her eyes. The light on her disc started to flicker and soon grew into a hologram… a wall of light rose in front of Quorra's face, showing a projection on it like a TV screen. It was turned to Sam. He watched as the image solidified into a view of Kevin Flynn's living quarters on the Grid, the white expanse dim at the moment, fading to gray.

Sam put a hand on Quorra's shoulder and the image froze as she opened her eyes. "Are you sure you wanna do that? It's kinda… your head."

"It's your father," she said, and her eyes closed. The image swung around… Quorra's first-person perspective as she roamed the room, eying the books, tidying up the table so the place settings were all in perfect order, then seeing Kevin sitting at the window. Gazing out at Tron City as the light from fractal fireworks washed over him, dyeing the apartment in CLU's fiery colors.

"We should strike now," Quorra said, and her voice was so full of anger that Sam almost couldn't recognize it. "The Programs will rise up with us, CLU will die."

"Do you really have that much faith in the others, or do you just hope they share your rage?" Kevin turned. His face was between Sam's memories… just starting to puff with age, stubble metamorphosizing into a beard. "CLU's time will come eventually. That kind of aggression can't stand. For now, let's see about you. Did you read the Mahayana Sutras?"

"Yes."

"The New Testament?"

"_Yes._"

"What about Professor Nabir's argument on hadith? I found his views pretty interesting, but I can see how they could lack context for a novice. If you have any questions…"

"_How does any of that help us kill CLU!_"

Kevin rose up, putting his hands on his back and cracking it in a profoundly un-shamanic gesture. "How does killing CLU help us? Will we be able to avoid the mistakes that led to him taking power in the first place?"

"Don't give all the power to a… to a giant _douche_, yes, that's a good lesson."

Sam smiled to himself. Young up-and-comer Quorra seemed like fun.

Kevin shook his head sadly. "I made a mistake with CLU. I don't know what it is yet… if it was in his programming or," he tapped his forehead, "—up here… but I'll find it. And when I do, I'll know how to stop CLU."

The smile froze on Sam's face. He remembered exactly what his father's eventual solution had been. He remembered standing there in the arcade, finally free, _knowing_ that his father was gone forever… and such a strange _relief_ in that sadness, in finally being able to mourn, in letting go of hope and finding it and embracing that good, clean _hurt_ like a bone being set back into place.

He might've stood there a long time if Quorra hadn't tapped him on the shoulder and asked if she would need clothes in the real world.

But back then, way back then, Quorra was practically on fire. "What about out there! According to your calculations, two years have already passed among the Users. Aren't you worried? You rule that world, what if it falls into disarray, what if it rots, what if—"

Kevin folded his hands together. "I only rule a little corner of that world. The rest will get on just fine without me. And as for Encom… Alan can handle it. He loves that corporate stuff, he's probably having a ball."

Quorra was finally calming down. "But what about the ISOs? You said we… I could save the world. If CLU keeps us pinned down here, who's going to save the world?"

"The world will get by. It's got good people in it. They even have another Flynn lying around."

"Sam."

"Yeah…" Kevin turned away, staring out the window… or perhaps at his reflection in the glass. "He's a good kid. And my folks, they'll be great to him. Alan and Lori, too, they'll look after him. He'll grow up to be just like his old man… or, even better, like his mother. Probably hatching up some crazy scheme or another as we speak. With him around, I think the world will do just fine. Now, did you read Nabir or not?"

The disc darkened and Quorra opened her eyes to find Sam with his hand half-raised to the disc, his eyes shot through with liquid, turning red vein by vein.

"Did I do something wrong? Are you hurt? You're crying. You're not supposed to be crying unless you're hurt or sad, and I didn't mean to make you sad."

"You didn't," Sam said. He raised his hand all the way, putting it on Quorra's. He smiled through his tears.

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because sometimes I forget how much people care about me. And it feels good to remember… People cry when they're happy, Quorra. It's just another thing about us that doesn't make sense."

He didn't say it was a good time to hug him, but Quorra didn't ask. She just felt his chest patter for a few moments before settling down into deep, contented breathing and knew she'd done the right thing.


	6. Dear Cosmo Magazine

Author's note: Yes, the Cosmo article referenced in this fic is real. Yes, I had to transcribe it from a real Cosmo magazine at a real bookstore. But when I told everyone that it was just for a Tron fanfic I was writing, they understood.

No offense if you read Cosmo, I just think it's so insipid it could moderate Scans_Daily. Also, Quorra's texts came from some website. I won't give out the url, just like I won't give out instructions on how to build a fertilizer bomb.

* * *

He's gotten his Ducati back from the impound lot. That was the first thing Sam thought when he woke up. Because he needed to go fast, to at least _feel_ like he was getting away from whatever the hell it was that had woke him up feeling like his heart was in a blender, and the last time he'd felt this way (two years ago, his dad's birthday) he'd given a stranger his MasterCard just to ride off on the guy's Harley.

It made no sense. For the past week of getting settled into the new apartment, his subconscious had been dullsville, not even a nudge at the fact that he was sleeping literally six feet from about the most beautiful girl on record, then last night he'd gone to sleep, staring at that face of hers as usual, and as soon as he shut his eyes

Derezzings. CLU. His father.

Now it was five AM and he was putting fresh clothes on over his sweaty body, trying not to wake Quorra even as he knocked over everything in the apartment because he still hadn't memorized where everything was and he didn't want to turn on the light because of the _principle_ of the thing.

Finally he got to the door and went out and took the stairs down because he couldn't stand still in an elevator, he'd be trapped in there, and when he reached the lobby there was an old hurt in his leg flaring up but he choked it down and went to the parking garage and got on his Ducati and drove.

* * *

His phone was ringing. That's what the buzz was in his pocket. He eased off the throttle and let the motorcycle glide to the side of the road. Behind a billboard and over a depressing carpet of drug paraphernalia, he answered his phone. "Yello?"

"Yellow what?" Quorra asked. "What's yellow?"

"Nothing. It's just hello with a Y. People do that. It's strangely addictive. So what's up?"

Quorra didn't know if he was asking about the state of gravity in the apartment (since that was tricky, in her experience) or if he was asking her about the situation, so she hedged her bet. "The sky, and I woke up while you weren't here. You didn't leave a note, so I was worried I'd be alone forever. I didn't know where you were, so I called you on the phone. And now we're talking."

Sam felt a stab, like guilt was a nail and he'd just stepped on it. How was it Quorra could figure out guilt, but not how to make a fresh pot of coffee?

Taking off his helmet, Sam rubbed at his eyeballs. "I'm not leaving, I just had to… drive."

"What? Where? Where are you… Sam?" Quorra added mollifyingly, no doubt clutching the phone.

"State or country?"

"Countries are bigger, right?"

"Yes, and America. I think. Some guys I cut off in traffic swore at me in Spanish, but maybe it just didn't translate well to the Queen's English." She was going to worry. He knew it. She was going to worry and by the time he got back, Jesus Christ 2.0 was going to be a nervous wreck. He needed to distract her. "Say, could you go to the store and pick up some eggs?"

Quorra did a conversational cold reboot. "But… we have eggs."

"Get more eggs. In case the ones we have… hatch. In fact, take the credit card, pick up anything that looks good. I'm sick of fast food."

"So am I. They keep giving me the same toy."

* * *

When Sam hung up, Quorra didn't even try to hide her plus-sized grin, even though Sam had said it made her look like the Joker. Sam had just trusted her with making sure they didn't starve to death. And she _would_ live up to that responsibility.

She packed lightly for the trip, just a switchblade, a taser, and her back-up switchblade. Sam had explained how, despite the news, it was unlikely she would be kidnapped, mugged, and have her organs stolen. But she had to be ready for two out of three.

She used the elevator, walked outside, and followed the street signs until she got to the corner store. She didn't see what the big deal was. She'd been downtown in Tron City all the time. Sure, it'd been a couple centuries since then, but she wasn't all that rusty. She found the eggs in the Produce section, although she didn't know why they were called Produce when everything in the store was produced.

There she was, standing in the check-out aisle, when she saw it, shining out to her like a beacon. **Want your dream guy RIGHT NOW?**

Quorra nodded.

**How to satisfy ANY man!**

Sam was any man!

**BAD GIRL SEX**

Quorra had never had girlsex, but if she did, she would definitely want it to be good, not bad. Still, the other stuff sounded good. She picked the issue of Cosmopolitan up and looked inside. There were a lot of pictures. Maybe it was meant for children.

"Hey lady, this ain't a library," the check-out man said.

Quorra smiled. He'd called her a lady. "Could it be? People could pick up books while they got their groceries, and then when they had to return the books, they would buy things on impulse. You'd increase your profits and promote literacy!"

The check-out man stared at her. "We accept all major credit cards."

Quorra handed him Sam's, adding the magazine to her purchases. She kept it bent open so she could continue reading it as it waited on the counter. V-Necks were out… that sounded familiar.

She looked up at the check-out man. "Quick, what am I wearing?"

"A… V-neck thing?"

Quorra gasped. "I'm out!"

All the men in line groaned.

* * *

_This month in Cosmo… Desperate Housewives hunk Brian Austin Green tells us how Transformers it-girl Megan Fox keeps him on a leash, with What Guys Find Romantic (don't tell Meg Ryan!)._

Sending a mushy text - "I usually go to work before Megan and I love getting a text that says 'Good morning, I love you.'" 

* * *

Sam was making good time. Then he felt his phone vibrate again. Well, you didn't learn how to jump a motorcycle over a car or two without figuring out how to check caller ID and not drop below 60 MPH. He wrestled the phone out of his pocket and saw it was Quorra. A text, at that. **We go together like ice cream and my stomach.**

That was sweet, even if it did end with one of them covered in acid. He returned the phone to his pocket.

An instant later, it buzzed again. With one last look at the road, he again yanked the phone out.

**When it rains, you don't see the sun, but it's there. Hope we can be like that. We don't always see each other, but we will always be there for one another!**

That was… sweeter. Like raw sugar was sweeter than chocolate. Before he could even return his phone to his pocket, it buzzed again.

**Once upon a time, something happened to me. It was the sweetest thing that ever could be; it was a fantasy, a dream comes true. It was the day I met you!**

Maybe it was a code. She was in trouble. She'd been kidnapped and her captor would… only let her send mushy text messages.

**What is love? Those who don't like it call it responsibility. Those who play with it call it a game. Those who don't have it call it a dream. Those who understand it call it destiny. And me, I call it you!**

Mushy text messages would seem to discourage a rescue attempt.

**I love your eyes, I love your smile, I cherish your ways, I adore your style. What can I say; you're one of a kind and 24/7 you're on my mind!**

That didn't even rhyme.

**I love you, you love me, in my heart you'll always be, here or there, near or far my love will be wherever you are!**

That did rhyme, but it still hurt to read.

** If I could be anything I would be your tear! So that I could be born in your eyes, live down your cheeks and die on your lips! **

He'd seen Criminal Minds. This was how serial killers talked.

**If love can be avoided by simply closing our eyes, then I wouldn't blink at all for I don't want to let a second pass having fallen out of love with you.**

Who said anything about love and eyes?

**I wrote your name in the sand but it got washed away, I wrote your name in the sky but it got blown away, so I wrote your name in my heart where it will stay!**

Sam dropped the phone. In front of the motorcycle, where it was sure to be run over.

* * *

Sam had the strangest sense of foreboding as he came out of the elevator on the floor of his apartment. He'd never felt anything so ominous before. Even when he'd been picked up by that UFO on the Grid, it'd been kinda cool. This just felt like seeing Shia LeBeouf's name in a movie's opening credits.

He unlocked the apartment door and went in to find Quorra on the couch, raptly reading a magazine. When she saw him come in, she perked up like a beagle hearing a dog whistle. "Did you get my text?"

"Yes, I thought you were a serial killer. But then I remembered that there are virtually no female serial killers. It's pretty much just an ugly Charlize Theron."

Quorra blinked at him a few times, face frozen, and Sam regretted being so harsh. It wasn't her fault she was Hallmark's target audience.

"Do you like serial killers?" she asked numbly.

"Well, I like Freddy Krueger. He seems cool."

"You didn't like the texts." Quorra sounded shellshocked, like Sam had just told her Santa wasn't real (not a conversation he was anticipating).

"It's not that… they were sweet. It's just that some people aren't comfortable with that level of sentimentality." And they were called humans.

"Oh." Quorra brightened instantly, which combined with Sam's feeling of apprehension to come off as downright Lovecraftian. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get you somehow."

That wasn't really something a non-serial killer would say.

* * *

_Celebrating Fluffy - "If she celebrated something stupid, like the day we got our cat, I'd love it. It shows a sense of humor." _

* * *

Sam woke up in the middle of the night to a siren. "Oh God, World War 3!" Then he saw Quorra. And the noisemaker in her lips. "Quorra? What are you doing, I told you I needed to get to bed early for the presentation tomorrow. It's twelve AM, that's right in the middle of my sleep cycle!"

"It's a special occasion," Quorra said jubilantly. "Three weeks ago today, you cut your finger and I learned about mortality. But I also learned something more important. I learned you'll be there for me, whether it's a cut finger or a—Sam, are you awake?"

Sam jerked his head up. "Yeah, yeah, you were saying?"

"You cut your finger. _Never forget._ And to mark the occasion, I safety-proofed all the knives in the apartment and got us a cake." She pointed to the nightstand, where a cake sat.

Sam swiped his finger through the frosting and licked it clean. About as good as a cake in the middle of the night could be. "Quorra, I love to party, it says so right on my Facebook page, but time and a place, eh?"

Quorra's brow furrowed. It was a bit cute, even for twelve at night. "You're saying we should have the cake in the morning?"

Sam nodded, then rolled over to get back to sleep. "Cake for breakfast. You definitely spent a couple of hundred years with my old man."

* * *

_Making his skin soft - "Guys don't know anything about hair or skincare products, so buy him some. I feel pretty when I use the facewash Megan gets me."_

* * *

But wasn't it always the way that after you got woke up, you couldn't get back to sleep, so you just spent hours lying in bed, wondering if you should get up or not. So even though he'd gone to bed at eight like a geriatric. Sam 'woke up' exhausted. A good hot shower, that's what he needed, that would wake him right up.

"Wait!" Quorra screamed, as he went into the bathroom, also waking him up.

Sam sighed. "Why am I waiting, Quorra?"

"I bought you some face wash." Quorra tossed it to him smugly. "It's to keep your face from being gross."

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. "Why would I need my face to not be gross?"

"Your face isn't gross. This just makes it less grow. Than it already isn't."

Sam took the face wash. "I get what you're trying to say and I'll give it a shot. But don't ever try this on a girl."

* * *

_Going Tim Gunn on him - "When she picks out my outfit, I love knowing she wants to see me in it."_

* * *

"Where are my clothes?"

Quorra looked up from her breakfast (cake) to find a wet, towel-clad, very clear-faced Sam looking at her. "I got you new clothes," she said, pleased with herself. "Cake?"

"No. No cake. I need my clothes. I need my five thousand dollar suit from Savile Row because the attire for a meeting to determine the future of a multibillion dollar corporation is not 'business casual'."

"I have just the thing." Ruefully abandoning her cake, Quorra led Sam to his closet, where she paged through the jumpsuits she placed there until she found one in all-black. With the press of a hidden switch, purple lines flared to life. "I made it myself. Purple is the color of royalty and nobility, since in olden days, Tyrian Purple could only be afforded by the elite. It came from sea snails."

Sam shut his eyes. "You know that, but not where my clothes are? My good jeans? _My Beastie Boys Ill Communication concert T-shirt?_"

Quorra bit her lip. "I gave them to the poor?"

"Which poor, in particular?"

* * *

One hand still cinching the towel around his waist, Sam rampaged out of the hotel room and into the hallway to find a hotel porter delivering room service. "Take my shirt off!"

Quorra was close behind him. "Cosmo says men don't like aggressive propositions!"

* * *

_Leaving a sweet surprise - "It would be cute to open up my laptop and see that she set my background to a picture of the two of us."_

* * *

As it turned out, the porters had surmised that a miscommunication was responsible for them suddenly being gifted with an entire wardrobe (except for the Ill Communication shirt, which they had assumed was meant to be thrown out. It had holes in it). Sam got his clothes back in time to change into his work outfit, complicated as that was by Quorra poking her head into his dressing room and asking if he needed any help.

("I've watched movies, guys never know how to tie ties. I've practiced!")

(Sam doubted any of those guys had grown up with Alan Bradley as a godfather.)

The shareholders' meeting wasn't so much about the plan Sam was outlining as Sam himself. Encom needed to know he was as much a leader as his father. Funny, how he could spend so much of his life running from Kevin Flynn's legacy, and now he had to live up to it. Hilarious.

The shareholders were an impressive lot, arranged in shades of gray (their business suits) along the conference table. Sam, in his own charcoal suit, stood at the head, laptop at the ready.

"Thank you for coming," Sam said, resisting the urge to fiddle with his tie one last time. "And since I'm sure your financial advisors are telling you to dump this stock, thank you for not doing _that_ too."

A few laughs went up, but too few to fool Sam into thinking he'd said something funny. Even Alan didn't dignify it with a chuckle.

A hand shot up. It was Ed Dillinger Jr., looking the consummate teacher's pet. Dillinger was the one part of the old regime Sam couldn't change. He had stock options and for some reason he wouldn't just screw off and work for a company still dedicated to evil, like whoever made Farmville. "I hate to interrupt amateur night at the Apollo, boss, but I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I ask: Given how stock prices have plummeted since you started throwing your weight around, why should the board take your 'new direction' for Encom as anything more than another craven stunt to show off your youthful idealism?"

_Youthful? We're the same age, jackass._ "I'm glad you asked." Although not so much about the sarcasm. "The truth is, our stocks were high for one reason. We were the only game in town. My father's ideas put us so far ahead of the pack that we've been coasting ever since. And that's fine in the short-term, but long-term… it just takes one good idea to change the game. Shouldn't we be the ones to come up with the idea?"

"So the sky is falling, is that it?" Dillinger asked. Did he have a mode other than sarcastic? Did he ever stop smirking, even?

Alan stood up. "No. We're not talking about damage control, we're talking about avoiding it. The market may change in twenty years, it may change tomorrow. The point is being ready for it. Right now, we're respected, but not loved. We've spoiled the marketplace with tyrannical DRM, sports game franchises that we pump out every year with nothing more than updated states, smaller studios that we buy up just so we can strip-mine their IPs."

Sam summed it up. "If you've ever watched a comedy where some plucky slacker clashes with a bunch of jerky stuffed-shirts… we're the stuffed-shirts. Just by taking the hit now and changing our business practices, we can build up goodwill among our customers for years to come. And when the market wanes, like it always does, that goodwill will bear us through." He tapped his fingers on his laptop. "I asked the boys in marketing to do up some projections of public perception of Encom at the time of my father's disappearance, versus its perception at presence." He opened the laptop, his desktop mirrored on the boardroom's state-of-the-art LCD wall. "The thing is, we've been gaining ground in the more casual marketplace… grandmas buying things for Christmas… but the hardcore customer base has been abandoning us in droves. Our core constituency is down sixty percent, those are the guys who are supposed to be buying our products rain or shine and we're driving them away—"

Alan tugged on Sam's arm. "Sam, is that Quorra?"

Sam looked at the desktop background behind the window he had open. Was that Quorra's—

Sam maximized the window and looked at a beyond-amused Dillinger. "Ed, that's the last time I lend you my laptop."

So, he did stop smirking occasionally.

* * *

_Recording his shows - "I'll turn on the TV to find that Megan has TIVOed five things she knows I would enjoy. It's really sweet." _

* * *

Sam got home probably more angry than he should've been. Not that he listened to the still, small voice in his head _saying_ that. It all seemed to mix together, Quorra's incompetent attempts at building a relationship, his corporate woes, his father. Despite how he'd recovered after the faux pas at the board meeting, despite Alan clapping him on the back and telling him about the time Kevin had run off to get everyone oranges during crunch time because "I'm in a really orange place right now," Sam's head was swimming with prickly anxiety.

He just wanted to plop down on the couch and watch a million hours of Who's Line Is It Anyway reruns, like his grandparents were still alive to be amused and pretend-scandalized by improv antics. Coming into the apartment, he completely avoided Quorra, wherever she was—not just because he was angry at her and that felt like being angry at a kitten, but because he just didn't have the stomach at the moment to explain to her how, even though he knew she was probably just innocently taking a picture of herself in what she was wearing at the time (probably her continuing her addiction to splashing around in the hotel pool), there were connotations and implications and subtext and he just wasn't in the mood to be her mentor just then. He wanted to take a day off Quorra duty and let the world get along for twenty-four hours without an incoming messiah, just like it had for the past few million years.

And so, with a very satisfying mental rant on alone time prepared in case Quorra _did_ try to strike up a conversation with him, Sam sat back, turned on the TV, and hit the Tivo button.

There was no Whose Line Is It Anyway. There was no Conan. There wasn't even Jersey Shore, which he'd set to record just this once because he'd heard Snooki was getting punched again. There was just High School Musical. All three High School Musicals. In HD. Filling up his hard drive.

"Quorra?" Sam called gently. "You wouldn't have set the Tivo to record anything with Zac Efron in it, right?"

Quorra bounded into the room with a long-anticipated sense of smug satisfaction. She was dressed more fashionably than her usual ensemble of jeans and one of Sam's old shirts, not that Sam noticed. "I thought you might like a show to watch while you unwind after a hard day of work. You graduated high school and you like music… I don't know that much more about you. But I checked online and Bieberfan131 was very enthusiastic about the trilogy's quality!"

Sam closed his eyes. It was much easier to stay mad, and yet not be irritated, when he wasn't looking into Quorra's curious gaze. "Quorra… may I ask why you've been trying to give my life diabetes for the last twenty-four hours?"

"I was just trying to be romantic…" Her brow furrowed. "Dia-beet-us?"

"Who taught you to be romantic? Swimfan?"

"Cosmo magazine."

Sam opened his eyes. "What?"

"Cosmo magazine. Short for Cosmopolitan. It's a periodical for women, focusing on topics such as sex, relationships, beauty, fashion and health."

Sam was rubbing his brows. "Do they just have a sensor that goes off every time there's a woman who doesn't have an issue of Cosmo in her bathroom?" He shook his head. "Mind if I see it?"

"Sam… wouldn't that be like peeking at the other team's playbook?"

"Quorra, let me see it."

She pulled the rolled-up magazine out of her backpocket and handed it to him. He flipped through it. "Recording shows, sweet surprise, soft skin…" He held the magazine up to her. "You are taking relationship advice from Megan Fox. She was in Transformers! Revenge of the Fallen!"

"I think she's kind of cute."

Sam sighed. At least they'd gotten to the root of the problem. "Okay. Is there anything… _anything_ else you've done following the advice in this magazine?"

Quorra tapped on part of the article. Sam took a look at it.

* * *

_Loading the Fridge - "It's fantastic when I open the refrigerator to see that Megan has picked up my favorite food or drink."_

* * *

A lifetime supply of Twinkies dropped out of the refrigerator when Sam opened the door. He stared at Quorra. Just stared.

"You like Twinkies, right?"

Sam pulled up his shirt. "This six-pack isn't brewed with Twinkies."

"Could you do that again?" Quorra asked, eyes straining at his midsection.

"Quorra…" Sam slapped his hand against his eyes. "What were you thinking? All I wanna know. What part of this seemed like a good idea?"

Quorra grew serious. "Well… it said this would get a guy to like you. And I wanted you to like me. I guess I wanted it too much, huh?"

"Quorra, over here, babe." Sam put his arm around her shoulders and seated her beside him on the couch. "Listen up. You're like a Disney princess. Good-hearted, pure, kind… most people are nice, at least a little, because they want people to be nice to them. You don't even care. You're just nice because you're nice. And smart and funny—intentionally, even, sometimes. If you want people to like you, if you want _me_ to like you," Sam saw Quorra start to wince. "You don't have to pull any stunts. You just have to keep doing what you're doing."

Quorra gave him that breathtaking smile and hugged him. "And I don't have weird cheekbones? Because the magazine said they were supposed to be at an angle with my nose…"

"You have great cheekbones."

Quorra squeezed him tighter. "You should talk about how awesome I am more often. It feels really good."

"As long as you give me that magazine."

Quorra pulled back. "But it has a pictorial on Leighton Meester!"

"Quorra, because of that magazine you safety-proofed every knife in the house. I haven't been able to make a sandwich since then. I miss it."

Quorra handed over the Cosmo. "Wanna watch a show? Something without high schools or musical numbers?"

"Yes, anything-but-Glee would be fine, Quorra."

As she dashed off to find a TV Guide, Sam looked at the magazine and thought of cleansing flame. Then he saw the cover blurb promising _Secrets Of Bad Girl Sex!_ He had to know what a Cosmo editor's idea of kinky sex was. He flipped to the proper page and… Huh. _Huh._

"Quorra, you can have your magazine back!"

* * *

Sam woke up to the smell of… well, it was kind of indescribable. He rolled out of bed and cautiously approached the kitchen to find Quorra cooking "Twinkie hash browns," she said, pointing to the skillet.

"Let me guess: you got that recipe from a college student."

"It was online," Quorra negotiated.

"Okay, first on the agenda today: why the Internet is not always your friend." Sam grabbed a banana to sate his hunger for yellow things. "I'll be in the shower," he told her to forestall any romcom incidents where they saw each other naked. Three times a week was enough.

"Oh, here!" Quorra produced a bathrobe from behind the island and gave it to Sam, beaming as he unwrapped it. Judging from the embossed Lightcycles and the multicolored lines embroidered to follow them, it was a Light Cycles robe. "Bad_ass_," Sam exclaimed. "Where'd you get it?"

"Ebay. I think someone owes the internet an apology."

Sam tried it on. It was a nice fit. "I think the internet still owes me an apology for goatse. This is really sweet, Quorra, thanks. But what's the occasion?"

"Oh, you know…" Quorra hid her blush by scraping the Twinkies off the stove. "Not having to hold a towel around you leaves more arms for hugging."

"God, you're precious." Sam kissed her temple.

"And anything else you might want to use your fingers for, fresh out of the shower, just finished scrubbing the manly musk from your body…"

"God, you're a pervert," Sam accused playfully, draping the bathrobe over his arm as he went to wash up.

* * *

_Treating him like Hugh - "Guys love bathrobes. If you get up before him, bring his back from the bathroom for him."_


	7. A Very Tron Valentine's Day

"Do you know what day it is?" Quorra asked across the breakfast table.

Sam looked at the date on his newspaper. "February 14."

Quorra saw how it was. She played it cool. "Did you know there is a holiday that falls on February 14?"

Sam didn't lower his paper. "Is it Armenian Pride Day? Because every day feels like Armenian Pride Day, know what I mean?"

Quorra peeked down from over his newspaper. She had mounted the table. "It's Valentine's Day! Celebrating the day St. Valentine stopped the Loveless demon from ending romance!"

"I think you may have this confused with some other holiday."

"That's how it happened on Xena." Quorra sprawled out on the table, hips narrowly avoiding the napkin holders. Facing him with her chin in her hands, she looked like Sam's personal pin-up. "So, what are we gonna do? Ironically break-up and then get back together when we realize how much we mean to each other? Learn the true meaning of the holiday from a musically-inclined magical being? Watch our peers be picked off one by one by a masked killer who's really a classmate you thought you killed in a prank gone wrong but he survived with horrific scars?"

"You have a lot to learn about how we celebrate holidays. Generally, it's with heated family arguments and awkward revelations about our sexuality."

Quorra pulled down the paper. Now her face was inches from his. "And what would you like to reveal about your sexuality?"

Before Sam could get into his complicated feelings about whipped cream as an article of clothing, the doorbell rang.

"Could you get that please?"

Quorra kept her eyes on him, like a dog with a treat, as she got down from the table. It was… creepily endearing?

Sam picked up the Finance section. Encom stock was still going down, but it was course-correcting, plateauing. Soon, there'd be an upturn. There had to be.

An EEEEE sound so enthusiastic it was nearly ultrasonic coursed out from the living room. Quorra flounced back into the kitchen, holding a bouquet of roses in one arm, a box of chocolates in the other, and a Valentine's card in her teeth. "Mmph mmf mm!"

"Who's Timmy, and what well?" Sam replied.

Quorra laid the deliveries out on the table. "Someone sent me a Valentine!"

Sam casually folded his paper. "Does it say who it's from?"

"I bet it's a handsome prince! I bet he saw me once and fell in love from afar! I bet he's going to build me a palace, like the Taj Mahal! It was built by Shah Jahan in 1632, after the death of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal…"

"Quorra, I sent it."

Quorra couldn't contain her smile for a hot second. "I punk'd you!"

Sam slapped his forehead. "No! How could I get punk'd by a girl who doesn't even know about buttfors?"

"What's a buttfor?"

"For pooping, duh." Sam picked up his paper and turned to the funnies. "Reversal. C-C-C-Combobreaker."

Quorra thought furiously for a few moments then conceded gratefully. "My combo was broken." She brightened on a dime, tearing the box open like a kid at Christmas and popping a chocolate-covered cherry into her mouth. "Oh my dot com, this must be what an orgasm feels like!"

"There should be more tissues and shame."

Quorra looked at him like she'd forgotten Sam was there. "You've gotta try this!" And before Sam could say yes, she was surging across the table to slide a chocolate into his mouth. Only her finger went in too, just past his lips, maybe to keep him from spitting the candy out. His mind crossed some wires and he went "mmm, chocolate" when he should've been going "no, Quorra's finger." There was sucking. Quorra tasted like how medicine was supposed to taste, when you were young and mistook it for candy. She closed her eyes and looked like she was revising her opinion on what orgasms felt like. Sam didn't flatter himself. It was just that she was new at physical stimuli. She'd probably feel the same way about popping bubble-wrap.

She came to when Sam pulled his mouth away. "I'm sorry, was that erotic?"

Sam nearly choked on the candy saying "Little bit."

"And that's bad because we might be tempted to give in to our perfectly natural biological urges?"

Sam's mouth was full, so he just nodded.

"And that's bad because—"

Sam needed a way to stop people from wanting to have sex, fast. He swallowed. "We should go see a romantic comedy."

"Yes, that's a great idea! Almost as good as having sex!"

She was on to him. "Come with me. I wanna show you something. Bring the flowers."

"Alright, but they have thorns, so it could be painful if you—"

Sam loudly opened the window he'd walked to. Outside was the planter he'd installed while Quorra was asleep. "I know you already have a garden on the roof, but this way you can look at your roses every day and not worry about them dying." He knew how Quorra got. If she were worked up enough, she would probably genetically engineer a super-rose, and the Earth would be overrun by romantic, sweet-smelling death.

He leaned next to the window. "So, whaddya think?"

Quorra turned him to face her, took a few steps back for a running start, then leapt into his arms for one of those anime character hugs. "I'm so glad you're the one teaching me about humanity, because you must be the best it has to offer."

"No, I'm not. Trust me, a lot of the time I don't even recycle… you can get down now."

"Spin me. You're supposed to spin me around when I do this."

Mustering all his upper body strength, Sam gave her a spin. Quorra clung to him and laughed and dropped away when he was done. Her smile was so uncontainable she was embarrassed by it, so she turned to peel away the topsoil from the planter and begin rooting her flowers.

"Sam, when we were talking about orgasms earlier, that was a joke you made about masturbation, right?"

Quorra was the first girl his humor was too subtle for. "Uh-huh."

"You don't do that because of me, right? I mean, the shame…"

"No, Quorra, I haven't lately… we've been sleeping in the same room… before, I mean. When I didn't have a girlfriend."

"Why didn't you have a girlfriend? You're nice and when I look at you, _I_ want to be your girlfriend."

"I've had girlfriends, it's just… none of them were right for me."

"What was wrong with them?"

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from gesturing. Conversations like this made him want to pull his hair out. "I don't know. Nothing. Maybe it was me. My last girlfriend was a first-year psych student. She said I was messed up cuz of my dad leaving. I said if I didn't want to cuddle with her and watch Sex And The City, it wasn't intimacy issues, it was the fact that I have balls."

"But you like cuddling with me. What happened to your balls?"

Sam sighed. "They're in your purse. Let's go watch a chick flick."

* * *

While Quorra looked up showtimes, Sam splashed on some cologne and changed into a tuxedo his stylist had thrown in on his last makeover. After he made a few James Bond poses in the mirror with Quorra's hairdryer, Sam called "Found anything yet?"

"Yeah, Sam, I've got the perfect show. It has a great cast, it was a box office hit, it even won some Academy Awards."

Sam walked out of the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to adjust his tie, and for Quorra to admire him; when she didn't look up from her laptop he walked over to rub her shoulders. It was kind of gratifying how she melted back to rest her head against his stomach. "So what's the movie?" he asked, interrupting her reverie.

"Brokeback Mountain. It's supposed to be really romantic."

He stopped massaging. "You don't have a second choice?"

She looked upside-down at him. "What's wrong with Brokeback Mountain?"

"Nothing. I've just been prepping myself for Hugh Grant as a sex symbol, not full-on guy-to-guy combat."

Quorra pulled away from his hands to spin her chair around. "Sam, are you a… a _homophobe?_"

"What? No! For God's sake, I watch Glee!"

"Then why would you not want to watch Brokeback Mountain?" Quorra j'accused, as if she'd just caught him in a lie.

"Listen, Quorra… for guys, gay sex is like spiders mating. We appreciate that it's totally natural and there's nothing wrong with it, we just don't want to know the gory details."

Quorra emitted a shrill note of protest and turned her back on him. "Right now, it wouldn't surprise me if you were perpetuating rape culture."

"Rape culture? Where'd you hear that? Have you been going to college behind my back?"

"No, it's something I learned in fandom," Quorra said proudly.

"What's fandom? Sounds like something you'd buy in Thailand."

"It's not!" Quorra spun her laptop to face him and started calling up websites. "See, I was searching for information about you and Encom online—"

"You've been cyber-stalking me?" he teased.

"No! Not at all!"

"Are those pictures of me in Bora Bora? In swim trunks?"

"That's a pop-up." Quorra closed the window. "Anyway, you know they're making a new Tron, right?"

"Oh, yeah, the new Tron game. Alan mentioned it to me. Supposed to be good. Great graphics, cool band doing the music, they even got some chick from The OC to play the heroine."

"Mischa Barton?"

"That's her. I'm looking forward to it."

"I don't know, the hero seems really generic. Doesn't _every_ video game hero want revenge for his dead family? At least he doesn't have daddy issues. How lame would that be?"

"And you would prefer?"

"Why can't Tron come back? The game's named after him, isn't it?"

"The game has changed," Sam fired back. "What were we talking about again?"

"Brokeback Mountain."

Crap! "No, after that."

"Oh, fandom. You know a lot of people were fans of the original game, and some of them got together and started writing stories about the game. And many of those fans are very passionate about social justice. They wanted a transgendered, queer-identified, racial minority in the hero role."

"Yeah, we were going to go in that direction. Then we stopped laughing."

Quorra crossed her arms huffily. "You're nothing like you're written."

"Whoa, _I_ have fanfics?" Sam leaned over her shoulder. "Let me see."

"Not many. It's called Real Person Fiction. Some people noticed how… cinematic you were, with the extreme sports and the corporate sabotage and the animal rescue, and they started incorporating you into their stories."

Sam looked at the fic headers. "Hey, what does 'Sam/Alan' mean?"

"Same thing an X would mean between your names."

"And what would Sam X Alan mean?"

"I think his name would come first, since he's the top."

"Okay, either you're reading a story where Alan's a shirt or a story where him and me are an item."

"Actually, both. It's anthrofic. Tron fandom is so cracky!"

Sam backed away slowly. "Are you seriously telling me there are people who think me and my _godfather_ are gay for each other?"

"They don't really think that—for the most part. They just like to speculate about it. Sometimes in song! Would you like to hear your flik?"

Sam circled around to sit on the desk, where he couldn't see the laptop's screen. "Why would anyone think Alan and I are having sex? Is it because I tweeted I'd go gay for Nathan Fillion? That's it, isn't it? It's not my fault, he's an amazing actor, and he seems like a very tender lover."

"This has nothing to do with Nathan Fillion. You and Alan just seem really close. In interviews, you're always talking about how supportive he is and he's always talking about how smart you are…"

"The interviews!" Sam cursed. "I knew nothing good could come of wearing a tie."

"Plus, you do some major eye fucking."

"Eye fucking?"

"You know, this." Quorra locked eyes with him and squinted slightly.

"That's called eye contact. People do it when they talk. Even straight people."

"The paparazzi photographed you hugging."

"That was a bro-grab and you know it!" Sam calmed down and stood, tugging at his bowtie. "At least tell me the stories aren't weird."

"Weird?"

"You know, I'm a talking cat-person and Alan is a tentacle monster and Frodo Baggins watches us make-out."

"Oh, no, no tentacles. Usually just fics where you play boss and secretary. In one, I play yenta and give you the idea."

"Wait, you're in these stories?"

"Oh, yes." Quorra spun the laptop to face him. Sam was afraid to look. "A lot of the storytelling is based off candid photos, and since I'm in the photos, people put me in their stories."

"A-ha!" Sam jabbed a finger at her. "How do you like it?"

"I don't like it very much. A lot of people are nice, but some of them think I'm getting in the way of their OTP and they don't realize how hurtful they're being."

Sam's bemusement did a U-turn into concern for Quorra. "OTP? What's a… never mind. What do you mean hurtful?"

Quorra clicked a link. Sam read. It was a repost from one of those TMZ wannabes, "candids" of a few days ago when Sam had taken Quorra to the skate park to show her how to ollie. She'd been enthused. The comments weren't. _What does he see in this basic bitch? Does she even know how to color-coordinate? She looks like she's auditioning to play the first female Doctor Who._

"I thought that scarf _went_ with that fedora." Quorra cursed.

"They can't talk about you like this!"

"There are a few Constitutional amendments that say they can. Sometimes I wish I could quarter troops at their homes, though…"

Sam was reading on, his face growing darker by the second. "It's like they think you're this gold digger trying to drive me and Alan apart! What the hell's wrong with them?"

"Well, a lot of them are still pretty broken up by Heath Ledger's death."

"Wh… _the Joker?_"

"He was an American hero, Sam."

"That doesn't give them the right to insult you, Quorra. Nothing could give them the right to insult you."

"I know that. Sam, I don't care what they say about me. I _know_ they're wrong. But thanks for trying to stick up for me. Like the poet said, you help keep the haters from getting me off my grind."

"Uh… anytime. Now, when's Transformers playing?"

As Quorra looked it up (she still had an iffy grasp on real-world physics, story structure, and basic human psychology, so she was pretty much the target audience), Sam thought about her online "friends." _Trying_ to stick up for her, eh?

* * *

"That was the best movie ever!" Quorra cheered as they left the theater.

"Even better than Eragon?"

"Much! The romance was so touching. She got in the car with him, Sam. _She got in the car._"

A camera flash tickled the corner of Sam's eye. Either they'd caught the attention of the paparazzi or he was standing in the way of a very photogenic building.

"Optimus Prime was cute, though. I don't know if I'd date Shia if he were on the menu." Before she could continue Hot or Notting the Autobots, Sam pulled her to his chest (which in this context, he couldn't help but think of as manly) and kissed her. He gave the tongue action a good three-Mississippi count, and when he pulled away. Quorra had that little breathy face rom-com characters got when it wasn't _just_ a kiss. The one where their eyes stayed shut maybe five-seconds post-kiss, like they were mentally doing an instant replay of the liplock. "That… that _computed_, Sam. That really, really computed."

"Yeah." Sam discreetly nodded to the photographer. "Wonder what my fanclub will think of that?"

For a moment, Quorra's eyes flicked from Sam to the snapping camera like a racketball at either a racketball game or a very confused baseball game. "You did that… _for the lulz?_"

Great, Quorra was getting started on another of her tangents. Sam gritted his teeth in frustration. "No, I'm letting them know that you're my girlfriend and if they mess with you, they're messing with me."

"I can take care of myself, Sam."

"Can you now? Because I thought I was supposed to protect you. That's the deal, right?"

"I didn't need protection, Sam! I told you that! You did this because you felt vindictive. You _kissed_ me to _hurt_ people."

The photographer kept snapping away.

"Why are you yelling?" Sam demanded. "I did you a favor!"

"You treated me like a child! As always."

"You act like a child! Throwing out my wardrobe, messing with my laptop… hell, we're still on an all-Twinkie diet! You never think anything through!"

The louder he got, the quieter she got. "I know I'm new at this, Sam, and I have a lot to learn. But it would be a lot easier if you didn't condescend to me and patronize me at every turn."

"When have I ever—"

"Just now. You thought you had to trick me into seeing this movie. You could've just said that you would rather watch it than Brokeback Mountain, but you deceived me and I didn't say anything because I hate saying bad things to you, I _hate_ disagreeing with you, I hate that I'm saying this right now, but I should've said it a long time ago."

"Like when?"

"When you disappeared. I called you and asked where you were, you told me to get eggs in case the ones we had hatched. Storebought eggs can't hatch, Sam. They're not fertilized. Would it be so hard to say you'd be back soon and I shouldn't worry, or that you needed to be alone because you'd lost your father and you didn't know—"

"_Would you shut the hell up, for once, for once in your life!_" As soon as he'd said it, Sam realized he was breathing hard, that his face was red, that he hated himself.

Quorra's voice was a whisper. "Since when do you yell at me, Sam?"

He made a shrugging motion. "Since now."

"I think we should separate for a while, then. I might be learning too much about humanity."

Sam just stood there, faintly shaking with rage and hate and some of it even for Quorra.

She turned, like she couldn't even look at him, couldn't bear to associate him with _this_. "Goodbye for now, Sam. Thank you for… before."

And she walked away.


	8. Happy Birthday, Kevin Flynn

Author's note: Before we start, I'd like to share my new favorite review. On the last part of this fic: _That was sad. How come he hates her? Why isn't he going after her? So many questions! Great story. I love it! You have to write more plz!_

1. That actually sounds like the response Quorra would have, and it's from a user named Quorra2011.

2. In the fic itself, Sam discovers Tron fic (which is RPF in-universe).

Could this possibly get more meta?

* * *

There was a month after Sam's father left—was taken—when Sam was sure he was coming back. Whole weeks passed with Sam being _tightened_ with frustration. Not with his father, no, with everyone else. Everyone trying to comfort him when his Dad wasn't dead. That was what he remembered most about his father's disappearance. The doomed certainty that they would be reunited.

It was what he dreamed of without Quorra.

He hadn't wanted to deprive Quorra of the apartment—she was _sheltered_ there—so Sam had moved back into the garage. Crashing on the couch had been like coming up for air. Otherwise, he threw himself into work, glad-handing, ass-kissing, even programming a little. The stocks were building again. It didn't relieve him. He had the persistent feeling that Encom was about to crash and burn.

When he got out of the shower, the lukewarm water having loosened him just enough to walk, he smelled maple syrup and heard the scrape of a bowl as pancake batter was made. Quorra had descended on his kitchenette, and a counter had been emptied of dirty dishes and filled with breakfast things.

She was snitching some of the batter when she saw him. "Oh. You're wearing the bathrobe I got you."

He almost took it off, but that seemed like it would give the wrong impression. "What are you doing here?"

Quorra set the bowl down. "I know what today is. I thought you shouldn't be alone."

Sam stepped past her and her cooking to get to the coffeemaker. It was all the breakfast he needed. "I'm pretty used to being alone on my dad's birthday."

"But you don't have to be anymore!" Before he could meet her gaze, she turned back to the stove. "We can talk about it or not talk about it—I can make pancakes or waffles or French toast. I know genre conventions would dictate me being comically inept at cooking, but I've actually gotten pretty good. Just give me advance notice if you want to go back to the apartment. And tell me how to get stains off the ceiling, because the mop won't reach… are you coming back?"

The coffee had gotten stale. "You want me back? That what this is about?"

"I want things to go back to the way they were. I want you to stop hurting."

"I'm not hurting."

"I want you to stop denying you're hurting."

"I'm not denying—" Sam fumed and drank his coffee.

"Have you talked to anyone? It doesn't have to be me. There are these people called psychologists, you can tell them about Tron and they won't let anyone else know—"

"You think I'm crazy now?" Why was he still drinking this coffee? It was awful.

"Don't twist my words, Sam. It isn't nice."

He turned and started looking through the cupboards. There was a box of power bars somewhere. He could eat on the road.

"Are you still asking what I want?" Her voice bounced off his ears, even the doors he was opening and cookware he was shoving around did nothing to obscure it. "I want to be your friend." Her arms were suddenly linked around his stomach, her weight pervading him from behind. It wasn't heavy—it was more like what he'd wanted from standing under the stream of hot water in the shower. "I want to help," she whispered in his ear.

He spotted the power bars. Grabbed the whole box, easily broke free of Quorra's embrace, and walked.

* * *

Work was work. He could detach, autopilot, and Alan had known Sam long enough to leave him alone on a day like this. Unfortunately, Ed Dillinger Jr. didn't.

"That open-door policy still in effect?" he asked, entering without knocking. Sam hated that.

"It is, actually, so you shouldn't have any trouble getting out."

Ed smiled and sat himself in front of Sam's desk. "I'm just wondering if we can expect a speech at the candlelight vigil."

"What are you talking about, Dillweed?"

"Celebrating Kevin Flynn's legacy. Since you've made Encom go all retro, I thought it was only right that we honor the man who so… inspired you. I volunteered for it. Since you assigned me to the janitorial department, I've had a lot of free time."

"I was hoping you could use it for job-hunting." Sam wondered if this was what hyperventilating felt like. Had Alan known about this? Why hadn't he told him?

"You waltzed in and stole this company from me, just like your dad did to mine, framing him for plagiarism. So if it weren't for Kev's example, our stock prices might still be soaring."

"Get out of my office."

"So that's a no on the speech."

Ed stood, pulling a rolled-up magazine from his jacket pocket. He dropped it to unfold on Sam's desk. It was a tabloid. The cover story was on 'Sam Flynn's new beau'.

"By the way, everyone will understand if you want to take the day off like you did on Valentine's. After all, if I had a girl like that. I'd want to get my money's worth too."

Ed sauntered for the door, almost hearing the armrests crack under Sam's white-knuckle grip. He paused in the doorway, hearing the wheels on Sam's chair squeak and footfalls so heavy they weren't swallowed up by the carpet.

Ed turned to find Sam in his face, eyes blank. "What? Got some _street luge_ to do?"

"No. Bumfighting," Sam said, before driving his forehead directly into the bone of Ed's nose.

* * *

Alan was close to frantic on the phone. Quorra could tell he didn't like entrusting her with this, but he was desperate.

"The police are looking for Sam?" Quorra asked, reflexively clutching for the cord on the wireless phone. That always seemed to help on TV. "What did he ever do to Sting? Oh, the other police."

Alan was still talking, but Quorra had pressed the phone to her breast. There was a key scrapping at the lock to the door. Quorra hurried over and opened it. Sam stood there, jabbing the air with his key for a moment, before his hand dropped to his side.

He was still in his suit, barely—his pants were tattered, his shoes were scuffed, his jacket was MIA, and his tie had been sliced into a collar. Blood stained the front of his dress shirt, which was partially unbuttoned down to his tanktop. The blood smeared on his chest, drying into crumbs, matching the stains on his mouth and chin, complimenting the bruises smearing his face.

"Sam! Oh…" Quorra couldn't think of anything to say, couldn't think of what people were supposed to exclaim at times like this. She just touched Sam's face to hold him still as she scanned for bone damage, or even a concussion, and said "Oh please no" as she did.

"I'm fine." Sam brushed her off and stepped inside. "Worse than it looks."

Quorra closed the door behind him. "What happened? What's that smell?"

"Two parts vodka, three parts bourbon… maybe the other way around." His voice was slurred. He didn't have a concussion. Sam turned to look at her and when he smiled, there was even blood on his teeth. "You ever noticed how many people need punching when you need to punch someone?"

Quorra took him by the arm and dragged him towards the couch. She still wasn't sure he wasn't about to fall down—he looked like he might—and she didn't want him to land on anything. "Sam, the police are looking for you. They say you hit someone."

"Old news. I've been hitting a few people…" He sagged into the couch where she set him down. "What did you think I did before I met you?"

"You grew up on a farm, playing with wooden swords and getting lessons from a mysterious old man?"

Sam's head drifted back against the cushion. "I'm not a hero, Quorra. I'm not your hero."

Quorra stared at him. She looked betrayed, for a moment, then angry, then nothing. "I don't understand."

"Which part?" Sam asked, head still back, eyes still closed.

"All of it! Why would you hit Ed Dillinger?"

"Well… have you met him?"

"And why would you go out drinking and—and _jacket-losing—_"

"It's called having a good time."

"You don't look like you've had a very good time."

Sam plastered a grin on his face and gave her two thumbs up.

Quorra didn't laugh. "Why is it that on the Grid, you can deal with people trying to _kill you_, but here, you can't deal with me?"

Sam laughed boozily. "You're a lot scarier than all of them."

"Then be brave. I've seen you do it."

Sam jerked himself upright in response. Quorra moved to steady him, but he grabbed her first, twisting her under him to bring his lips to hers. He tasted of alcohol molecules and blood cells, not himself.

"Stop," Quorra said when his drunkenness moved his sloppy mouth over her jawline. "No."

Sam dropped away like something that had rotted from her. "I thought that's where we were going with this."

Quorra had pulled his hands off her body, but she held onto them, squeezing apologetically. "If we keep going, I'm afraid I'd let you do anything you wanted."

Sam collapsed back down to the couch. "That'd be terrible."

Quorra sat beside him, pulling his head down onto her lap and petting his hair. If it worked for Marv… "It wouldn't. I'd do anything for you… to you… on you…"

He sat up. "I'm getting some mixed signals here."

Quorra pushed him back down and rubbed his scalp like she was sandpapering wood. "I'm alright with that. But I don't think you would be. You want me to have something special. But right now you're not yourself."

"You know what's funny?"

"The Muppets."

"No. What's funny is that for all the time you've spent studying humanity, you still don't know _me_. This is who I am. The reason I didn't want to have sex with you is that you're not in love with me. You… imprinted on me. Like a baby bird. If Meatloaf had gone to the Grid, you'd be in love with him. I wasn't courting you. I was letting you down easy."

Quorra stopped petting his hair. "That's not true."

"Sure it is."

"But... but…" she sputtered. She hadn't wanted to engage with him, hadn't wanted to get worked up again, but this quiet _hurt_ worse than him calling names or yelling at her. "I could never be in love with Meatloaf! He's a married man!"

Sam has found his sea legs. He rolled off the couch and made a beeline, sure and swift, for the door.

"Where are you going?" Quorra demanded.

Sam slapped his forehead. "I just remembered: the party's over, but I still need to do the after-party. And the pre-party for the next part. And the next party."

Quorra stampeded up to him. "You can't drive like this!"

"Never taught you about taxis, did I?" He opened the door. "Relax. I know better than to risk abandoning someone who might love me on a foolish—"

Quorra shut the door in front of him. "You'll hurt someone. Maybe yourself."

"I don't think fortune-telling is one of your superpowers."

"You hurt me."

For a moment, he seemed to sober. His eyes filled with regret and he opened his mouth as if to apologize. Then he turned to the door. "I should get going. It's rude to gate-crash late."

Quorra reached out and pinched his neck.

"Oww! What are you, Mrs. Spock? Quit pinching me!"

"I'm not pinching you. I'm pinching your carotid artery. If my anatomy books are right, without its blood supply to your brain, you'll lose consciousness in a few seconds. I'm sorry, but the alternative is kicking you, and I'm trying to prevent you from getting hurt."

Sam pulled away, stumbled a few steps, then fell through the coffee table. Quorra's hand went to her mouth and only came down when she tried to pick him up. Her real-world muscles weren't up to the task.

"You must have been drinking heavy liquor." She put a pillow under Sam's head, then picked up the phone and hit Redial. "Hello, Alan? I need you to come over here. There are some things I need to tell you about Sam… and his father. Oh, and could you bring a gurney, or some kind of rope-and-pulley system?"


	9. Father's Day

Sam woke up to a hangover. It was nostalgic. He moved a little, trying to determine a bare minimum about his surroundings. He was back in their—Quorra's—apartment and smelt coffee being offered to him. He took it from an aged hand. Alan's.

"I know you must be nursing a hangover, so I'll be brief and quiet."

Sam moved just enough to be able to sip his coffee. He didn't quite trust himself to talk to Alan.

"I could never replace your father. You and he have too much in common. He'd know what to say to you. He'd know what you're going through. I've always been content to play by the rules. And that's not who you are, I know that, I would never try to change that. But I've also done my best to help people, give them a fair deal. That's how I met your father. And if there's one thing I tried to teach you, it's that you'll be happier doing the right thing than you ever will _trying_ to be happy. Tell me you didn't listen.

"I listened," Sam said quietly. "I just can't. I can't be that guy."

"Quorra thinks you can," Alan interrupted. "She seems to have this idea that you're patient, that you're kind, that you're understanding. Why would she think that if you're such a bum?"

Sam shrugged. "Incurable optimism."

"I'd say it's the voice of experience. Besides, if there's one thing she could've learned from your father, it's how to be a good judge of character."

Sam's eyes felt like they would burst out of his skull, and not just from the hangover. "She told you."

"It was a lot to take in. Fortunately, you're a late sleeper."

The pounding in Sam's head went into overdrive. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this."

"I know. But you don't have to-_can't_-deal with this on your own."

There was a lull in the conversation, Sam not knowing what to say and wishing Alan would say something and wishing he wouldn't. After twenty seconds, Quorra burst into the room. "I made brownies."

She set them down on the couch between Sam and Alan.

"What happened to the coffee table?" Sam asked.

"We may never know." Quorra put her hands behind her back. She was vibrating with anxiety. "I'm sorry I told Alan. I didn't know what else to do."

"It's okay. You did the right thing."

Quorra bustled off, saying "I'm going to take a catnap now. Continue your bonding," as she went out the door.

"Is she eavesdropping on us?"

"Trying to."

"Why are these brownies gray?"

"I'm guessing Quorra took the name as a challenge."

* * *

Quorra was on the floor by the door when Sam walked through, a blanket over her. He looked at her.

"I was sleeping. I have a blanket," she declaimed.

"I need a ride," he said.

* * *

Quorra was surprisingly careful about driving. Sam barely felt a bump. He managed to stay upright as Quorra smoothly manipulated the wheel this way and that.

"People say things they don't mean when they're drunk," she enunciated carefully. Then she felt him stare at her. "One of us should say that."

Sam turned on the radio. Quorra turned it off.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

"I'm worried."

"You can be angry too. It's the little black dress of emotions. Goes with anything."

Quorra flexed her fingers on the wheel. "I'm trying to figure out how angry I should be."

Sam rested his head against the window. He'd tried not to think of what he'd said to her—liquor was good for that—but now that he did… "Pretty angry, I think."

Quorra seemed to agree. "Why are people such… jerks?"

Sam raised a finger. "Assholes, I think is the word you're looking for."

She turned to him and the car clipped a curb. "Well?"

Sam took a deep breath. Kneaded the growing pressure in his head. "Because they have bad days. Because they're tired, or sad, or… just because."

Quorra was close to tears, her jaw shaking as she tried to keep her mouth closed. It was hard for anyone to go through this, but she didn't even know the rules.

He'd damaged her Zen thing. Sam seemed to have a knack for that.

"I don't see why they can't just be nice. I do it all the time."

Sam put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't change that."

* * *

"We're here."

Quorra followed Sam out of the car. "A cemetery? I don't understand."

"Me neither. Alan's idea… sort of."

Sam walked through the gate and over the bright green grass and between the polished headstones. It all looked so tidy to Quorra. Like a single giant had derezzed and this was what remained.

"What did you and he talk about?"

"The Grid. He wanted to hear it in my words. Then he wanted to talk about Dad."

It was funny, how rarely they'd talked about Kevin Flynn before the page. He was like a ghost, haunting their conversations. Maybe Alan had thought Sam hated the very mention of his father, or some melodrama like this. He didn't. He just hated the way he went numb whenever he heard his father's name.

"Alan said I never came here." Sam walked with long, purposeful strides, like he'd recognized the features on the last leg of a journey. "I guess that's true. When Encom declared him dead, I still thought Dad was alive. I still cared."

They'd found the headstone. Kevin Flynn. Beloved husband and father.

"They buried an empty casket?" Quorra asked.

"Had to bury something. And I guess now it's as good a resting place as any." Sam patted his pockets. "Shit, I forgot flowers."

"Maybe you could… say something to him?" Quorra asked hopefully.

Sam looked at the headstone for a long moment. 1949-1989. "I don't have anything to say to him. Maybe that's the problem."

Quorra got closer, clutching his arm. "Close your eyes. Picture him as he was the last time you saw him. What would you say?"

"This is pointless. I'm getting therapy from someone who thinks the Sun goes around the Earth."

"It doesn't?" Sam wasn't sure if she was joking. "Please. For me."

Sam closed his eyes. Saw his father with the beard, the wrinkles, the Jedi robes. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Quorra's voice intruded.

Sam opened his eyes. "I don't know, it's just a thing people say."

"He'd want to know why." Quorra put her hand over his eyes. "Hear his voice, Sam. He wouldn't be angry. He wouldn't judge you. He's just curious."

Sam threw his hands up. "I'm sorry I've done such a crap job of protecting Quorra. I'm sorry she's better off without me. I'm sorry you're dead."

Quorra took her hand away. All he could see were her eyes, lancing him. "It wasn't your fault."

"I never said it was."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Oh, I get it, you're doing Good Will Hunting."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it is! I was the one who disobeyed him, I was the one who lost his disc, I was the one who could've stopped CLU a dozen times, but was never good enough! If it weren't for me being such an _idiot_, we could be back on the Grid, alive, _together_, planning our next move!"

"He didn't want that for us. We belong out here."

"I don't care! I want him back! _I want to have a father!_"

"You do. And even if you don't think that's good enough, there are others who care about you. Alan. _Me._"

"It's not—it's not…"

Quorra stepped close and pulled him closer, her arms around his back like a circuit completing. "If he were here, he'd do this. I know it's not much. I know it's not the same. But I spent a thousand years with your father, mediating and studying and preparing. I would rather be here with you, brand new every day."

She held him tight. For minutes he shook and breathed, not crying, not speaking. Then he was still.

Quorra kissed his cheek. "Shall we go home now?"

* * *

It was in the car that Sam finally spoke, putting his hand over Quorra's when she tried to turn the key in the ignition. "You know how you're learning about humanity? How it feels like you're not quite… done yet? That's how I am."

"Your father was like that. Learning right up until the end."

"Yeah… I know it can't have been easy for you, going through all this with me when we're so… raw. Maybe you have something you want to say to me, maybe something you want to ask… do it. And if I end up walking home, so be it."

"You said I imprinted on you like a baby bird. I looked that up. It's hurtful you could think that."

"I know, and it's not something I—know. Believe. It's what I think when I wonder what you could see in me."

"Are you worried that I'll stop seeing it? _Leave?_"

"No. I'm worried you'll stay. And when you meet someone you could really love, someone who deserves you, you'll be with me. Out of loyalty. Hating me."

Quorra put her hand on his face. "Don't I get to decide who deserves me?"

"Yes, but you don't know how special you are."

"I do when I'm with you." Quorra got out of the car. Walked around to his side and pulled him out so they were face to face, nowhere else to look. "I don't believe in unrequited love, Sam. I think if you truly love someone, you love the person that loves you. So… do you love me?"

Sam couldn't say it, couldn't bind her to him like that. "I want you to be happy."

"Then kiss me."

He couldn't tell her how he felt, not with three words or three hundred. Couldn't show her with jewels or roses or chocolates. But she could feel it in the meeting of their lips, in the hunger the answered hers as she pushed him onto the hood of the car…

"Quorra, stop…"

Quorra did, if only to work on getting off her bra. Sam would be hopeless at it. After all, it had taken her forever to figure it out. "It's okay. I'll be gentle."

"No, I mean… we're in public. In a graveyard. On a Ford Thunderbird, which I really want to preserve for posterity."

"Oh."

"And I really do have a headache."

* * *

In their apartment, Quorra's grayies turned out to go great with tea. Sam put a wet washcloth on his forehead and stretched out on the couch. It was good to be home.

Quorra hopped up on the back of the couch and managed to sprawl there despite it being half her width. "I've decided not to be angry with you."

"Are you sure? Because if you don't set firm boundaries, I'll think I can get away with anything."

Quorra reached down and ruffled his hair. "If you're not supposed to get mad at me for mistakes I make while I'm learning, why should I get mad at you for mistakes you make while you're learning? You were sick. You made bad choices. You're going to see a doctor and you know to make better choices. So what's there for me to be mad at?"

Sam grimaced. "C'mon. You've got to take it out on me some way. Make me sleep on the couch or something. C'mon. Just for my peace of mind."

Impressively, Quorra spun so she was sitting on the back of the couch, legs crossed on his chest. "Well… there is one thing, but I'm not sure it would count as a punishment, since it'll be so much fun…!"

* * *

As soon as the Japanese businessman got off the stage (Sam thought he recognized him from a shareholders meeting), Quorra gave Sam a firm push toward the steps. He took them like he was headed to a gallows. He'd been free-diving, base-jumping, and… parkour-iz-ing. He could survive this. Probably.

No sooner had he taken the microphone then lyrics began to scroll on the screen. "Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind wanting to start again?" he sang.

Quorra ended up calling for an encore. So that was something.


	10. Save a horse, mount an ISO

There were a lot of reasons for Sam to be glad he was back together with Quorra. Most of them fell under the catch-all category of 'adorable girlfriendness,' but in specific, there were a lot of things he was excited to show her. Not even big stuff like sunsets or opera music. Little things he wanted to see through her eyes. Like the bowl of candy hearts on his secretary's desk, mostly untouched, slowly growing stale.

"Do they make these anymore, now that V-Day has come and gone?" he asked, holding the candy dish up to the light.

"I doubt it. Who would want to buy pink chalk after Valentine's Day?"

"I'll give you twenty bucks for it."

"Forty."

"Sold." 

* * *

When Sam got back, Quorra was doing the laundry. As usual, she was joyously engrossed in the task, but as soon as he walked in, she gave him a strident look. "I just want you to know that I am a strong, independent woman, and I am doing this by choice, not because of traditional gender roles."

"Okay-dokey."

Quorra gave Sam's shirt another pass with the iron, then picked the shirt up and buried her face in it. "Gosh! Clothes are so soft and warm after they've been ironed! Why don't you do this before you wear _everything_?"

"Do you and my Flynn Lives T-shirt need a moment alone? Say…" He picked the shirt up. "I haven't worn this in forever." Mentally adding it to his wardrobe, he slung it over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, another important lesson in humanity." He dropped a Zip-Loc bag of Valentine candies on the ironing board. "Nobody knows what these are called, but around Valentine's Day, everyone eats them."

Quorra popped one into her mouth. "It tastes like dried tears."

"And yet, we eat them."

"That's silly."

"You have another one in your hand."

Quorra looked. "_Motherboard!_ Hey, there's writing on it." It read **U R Mine**. "This candy is claiming it owns me."

"I think those are meant to be messages from the giver to the," Sam sighed, "sweetheart."

"You think?"

"I wouldn't know, I never hated someone enough to give them any. Non-educationally, I mean," he cleared quickly.

Quorra held up a candy that said **Love you.** "You saying that is a lot more sweet than this candy."

"Thanks… listen, Quorra, I've been thinking lately…"

"When you did stop?"

Sam laughed nervously and moved to fold the clothes Quorra was done with, giving him an excuse not to look at her. Not that he didn't like looking at her, but there should've been a rule about having to be emotionally open while you had girl-eyes on you. You should be allowed to do that over short-wave radio.

"You know, people tell me I'm impulsive? I mean, like, poor impulse control. I have a tattoo of a rhino. Why a rhino? I don't know…"

Quorra's next candy heart said **Get real.** "I am real!"

_Hard to believe, sometimes._ Sam shook his head. "So, just once, I tried to play it safe and really take my time, because, hell, risking my life is one thing, but some things are more important… I guess. But I don't think there really are sure things. But there are things I trust. You know?"

"No." Quorra picked up a candy heart that said **You rule.** "Thanks, I think you rule too. Wait, how can we both rule? Is it a bicameral system of government?"

"I didn't write those," Sam said. "I would take those with a grain of salt."

"Do you mean a literal grain of salt or a skeptical outlook?"

"Skeptical outlook. Good on you for asking. Have you been listening?" Sam was kinda hoping he would get a chance to take it from the top.

"I can operate a Lightcycle's weapon systems while driving at 400 MPH. I can handle more than one train of thought. Can I borrow your computer?"

"Huh?"

Quorra held up a candy heart that said **E-mail me.** "Mine's broken. Windows Vista and trilaterial computing—not good bedfellows."

"You want to borrow my computer to send an e-mail to my computer?"

"And I want to touch Ben Affleck's chest." Quorra bit her lip. "I think non-sequiturs are fun."

Sam should've been ready for Sugarrush!Quorra when he gave her candy. "Where were we in the other conversation?"

"You were talking about not playing it safe anymore, so either you want to go after a crime boss despite the captain telling you we're off the case, or you were talking about taking our relationship to the next level, even though you can't be sure of our feelings for each other, but you've decided that you can never be sure when feelings are involved and so you were using that as an excuse to avoid emotional intimacy, but now you've decided to take a leap of faith."

Sam sputtered a little. "What would you say if I said it was the crime boss thing?"

Quorra shrugged happily. "I don't mind, I just like hanging out."

"Well, it's the relationship thing."

Quorra laughed.

Sam was really glad there wasn't a mirror present, because he would hate to see the face he was making. "You're not still thinking about Ghostbusters, are you?"

"No, the candy heart said LOL. But that Bill Murray…" Quorra laughed again.

The next candy heart Sam saw was getting turned into dust. "However much this writer makes, he's overpaid. You want to go out on a date?" he finished without so much as a breath in-between.

"Yes," Quorra said in stride, though she'd noted Sam hadn't used his preferred nomenclature, like 'Let's go do a thing'. "Is this a big deal?"

Sam folded clothes like his life depended on it. "Not kinda. I mean a real date—dressing up, dinner and a show… corsages…"

"Oh. I get it. This would be our third date, and on a third date—" Quorra began gyrating her hips and beatboxing a pretty good seventies porn funk. Sam could feel himself growing a moustache. "I don't know what this means."

"It means sex. Stop doing that to the ironing board, you don't know it that well."

Quorra tapped her chin. "Sex, yes… that explains a lot. Including why that ballet company wouldn't take me in. I thought it was because I wasn't perfect."

Sam knew Black Swan wasn't a date movie. Speaking of which: "We've been on more than three dates."

"No, we've been hanging out. There's a difference. I sorted it all out with online research."

"The same research that has High School Musical 5: Still Not In College seared into our DVR?"

"I'll have you know Bieberfan131 knows a lot about romance, she's read all the Twilight books. So tonight, third date, _prepare your anus._"

"Three things. One, don't use memes IRL, it's tacky. Two, I'm saving myself for my prostate exam. Three, we don't have to have sex on the third date. We can do it whenever you're ready: a year from now, a week from Tuesday, right now…"

Quorra laid herself over the ironing board. "My body is ready."

"At least let me buy you dinner first."

Quorra slid down onto her head, didn't seem to notice. "Oh, you will be buying me dinner. Cock-dinner. Because tonight I will get it… gurl."

Sam helped Quorra to her feet. "Three more things. One, what you're doing right now is being the dude and you can't be the dude cuz, two, I'm the dude. Three, dude or no dude, it's uncool to pressure someone into sex."

"I'm not pressuring. We can cuddle or hold hands or watch each other go to the bathroom. But if we do have sex, I am gonna rock your world, so prepare yourself accordingly."

"How?"

"You know… secure your world's valuables… basic disaster prep. For a penis-disaster."

"I just pictured a penis-disaster, and it was not erotic at all. If you see me drinking tonight, that'll be why." 

* * *

First a suit and a tie, now a tuxedo. Sam was sure burning through his outsider cred fast. But he was going to need a tux sooner or later—he'd rather buy one for Quorra than some fundraiser.

Now, he could've sworn he knew how to do a bowtie…

"Sam Flynn in a penguin suit. Never thought I'd see the day."

Sam looked over his shoulder at Alan. "Didn't think we'd shop at the same place, either."

"This is my tailor, remember? I gave you his number."

"Yeah, but I make this look good." Sam's tie fell apart. He started over.

"I take it you've dealt with the Dillinger situation?"

"He's been transferred to a do-nothing job in Accounting. One of sight, out of mind. I'm taking his wages out of my salary. My contribution to the United Asshole Fund."

"Well, if you had to get it out of your system, you could've picked a worse punching bag."

"He's not the one I'm worried about hurting."

Alan stepped in to fix Sam's tie. "Son, even I know that some time or another, you've got to stop thinking things through and do what feels right. That girl's no slouch when it comes to brains. If she loves you, it's because she knows you're right for her."

Sam looked at his bowtie in the mirror. "Thanks, man. Ya know, you're pretty good at this mentoring bit. You should have a talk show." 

* * *

"Tell me you're wearing something under that."

While Sam had been getting measured for his suit and tying up loose ends at the office, Quorra had been pregaming for the date with Lora, Alan's wife. They'd been shopping and spa-ing ("One place put hot wax on my—" "I'm comfortable with that story ending there.") and Quorra had ended up back on Sam's doorstep, wearing a fur coat that covered her from shoulder to toe. Sam usually wasn't a big fan of fur, but in this case, he'd make an exception.

"Of course. I'm not some kind of furry," Quorra answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, it's an old joke .The wife buys an expensive fur dress, the husband asks how could she spend so much money, then she opens the coat and—I'm giving you ideas, aren't I?"

"Many and varied."

"Tell me in the car. We need to get to the airport. Private jets hate to be kept waiting."

Quorra clapped her hands together. "Can I fly?"

There weren't enough air sickness bags in the world. 

* * *

While Sam drove, Quorra talked. Sam loved hearing her talk. It wasn't just that her voice was more soothing than one of those ocean CDs, only waking him up instead of making him feel drowsy. But it was just fun hearing her. She took nothing for granted.

With her, everything was wondrous, everyone was special. Sam wondered if she would ever get used to the real world. He doubted it. Even if she spent a thousand years in New York, she'd probably still be awestruck by a pretzel. Sam had known people, young and old, who got jaded and cynical and let nothing impress them. Quorra would never be like that.

"'Too hot'?" Quorra read from a candy heart. "I thought I was just hot enough!"

"You're still eating those?" Sam asked.

"No, I'm saving them to give to homeless people and small animals." 

* * *

At the airport, apparently there was some fear that they would hijack themselves, because airport security made them take off their shoes and go through the X-ray machine. Quorra took one look at it and asked if it used carbon nanotubes or conventional X-ray tubes. Sam hustled her along.

In the plane, Quorra went into her quiet information-acquisition mode. She took things in and out of the overhead bin, went to the bathroom forty times, and looked out every window in the cabin. She only spoke once, after Sam woke up from his catnap (flying always made him sleepy). "Are we going to parachute out?"

"Not this time."

She tried to hide her disappointment.

Quorra had learned. She knew Texas wasn't all cowboys, oil wells, or high school football. She also knew that Texas wasn't full of Mexican-hating homophobes, which put her up on a lot of people Sam knew.

There was an elderly British chauffeur waiting at the airport (and Quorra would never know how hard it was to find an elderly British chauffeur in Texas) with a sign bearing their names. Quorra's was misspelled.

She didn't appreciate the limousine as much as Sam would've thought. Probably because it handled like a donkey cart. She did like the old-fashioned cinema sign at the Alamo Drafthouse, though. "Is that a movie theater?"

Sam took her hand as she stepped out of the limo. "It's the movie theater."

In the old days, when Alan had business in Austin, he'd loved to take Sam along and treat him to a movie. Sam was still subscribed to their newsletter and when he'd seen the classic they were screening, he'd known they'd have to put in an appearance.

He stepped up to the ticket window. "Two for 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea."

He got the tickets and when he turned to hand Quorra hers, her mouth was hanging open like an emoticon.

"They made a movie… Jules Verne… there's a movie…"

Sam really did try not to look smug. He didn't succeed, but he tried.

Quorra hugged him. It wasn't as graceful as an embrace, she just put her arms around whatever she could grasp and squeezed. "Oh. Oh, you're thoughtful."

"It's…" The box office attendant was staring. "It's not that big a deal."

"You made it a big deal. We dressed up, we flew, we rode in a very long car… thank you."

"Anytime."

She pulled his arm around her as they went inside and to Sam, it felt just perfect. Although, seeing the other people at the screening, there was the niggling doubt that they had overdressed. Then Quorra took off her coat and Sam knew at least one of them had. It was a good thing the theater went dark. Otherwise, he might not be able to quit staring. 

* * *

Quorra loved the movie. She loved the food. She loved the company, a lot. For a moment, she was worried Sam was bored because he yawned, but when he put his arm around her she knew what he was up to. And she loved the classics. 

* * *

Afterward, they walked around the block. It was a big chunk of storefronts and sidewalk, so it took a while, Quorra babbling away about the squid and the Nautilus and Captain Nemo while Sam kept his arm around her shoulders.

"This is nice," Sam said, a minute after she paused for breath.

"Hmm?"

"Just a piece of advice I got once. Every once in a while, you should take a moment to think if you're having a good time, and then say so. Here we are in Austin, the most romantic city in… at least several square miles. It's a nice night, we had a good meal… I want this from life," he concluded. "Just more of this would be great."

Quorra kissed him on the cheek. "I'll see what I can do. Say, is there a Mysterious Island movie?"

"I'm not sure… but I have heard that Disney's doing a remake of 20,000 Leagues."

Quorra tsked. "They need to stop resurrecting these old properties."

They'd circled around to the limo, where the elderly British chauffeur was checking his watch. "About time. I have to be at someone's house-sitting in a tidge for some wonky sitcom seduction plot. Pretending to be a butler. No rest for the elderly British man in Texas."

"Just drop us off at a hotel," Sam told him. 

* * *

The Hotel Excelsior was so five-star it was almost a parody of a hotel. Everything was gold(-colored) and marble. There were bellhops, for God's sake. Quorra couldn't get enough of it.

"Checking in?" the concierge asked.

"Yes," Quorra said quickly, having seen too many spy movies. She side-eyed Sam. "He's the dude."

"Named after your father, I'm guessing."

Sam just pulled out his checkbook. 

* * *

The room was "palatial," as Quorra put it. Sam supposed a thousand years of Word-a-Day calendars left their mark on someone. He undid his bowtie and took off his jacket, but left his shoes on, even though they pinched a little. He was going more for 'Don Draper about to have two martinis' than comfort.

"So, how was the date?" Sam asked, checking the ice bucket he'd arranged to have waiting by the bed. The staff was probably thinking of holding back on the mint on the pillow just for asking to have Yoohoo there instead of wine, but Quorra wasn't exactly a wine connoisseur. ("How good can it be if people at wine-tastings _spit it out?_") "What's the Facebook status update?"

"Well…" Quorra draped her coat along the back of a chair, playing along. She counted on her fingers and Sam watched it ripple up to the muscles of her bare shoulders. "Well, there was dinner, and a show, we kissed, there was tongue… I can really only think of one thing missing."

"Oh yeah?" Sam replied, certain the answer involved his penis.

"No dancing."

Sam paused in the middle of reaching to unbutton his shirt, then brought his uselessly hovering hands to steeple at his nose like he was being interviewed by NPR. "Yeah. I don't know how to dance."

Quorra was teasingly agasp. "How can you not know how to dance; you know how to street luge!"

"I think one of those answers the other."

Quorra took his hands. "I'm going to have to teach you."

Sam suddenly had visions of an exhaustive jazz-tap mentorship in his immediate future. "Maybe we should sleep on that."

"The perfect guy knows how to dance."

Sam sighed. He was so pussy-whipped, he was like a… pussy… horse. "Alright, show me. I've been meaning to learn just in case I have to infiltrate the Russian Embassy."

Quorra walked over to the radio.

"Wow, that looked easy."

She smiled at him. "Music. Goof." She turned the dial until she got something with violins. "Perfect." She returned to him. "Okay, hand here, and here." She took one of his hands to her hip and laced the other with her fingers. He really tried not to notice how thin her dress was. Well, okay, it was impossible not to notice it since it had been noted, but he didn't dwell on it. Well, he didn't unduly dwell on it. Well…

"We sway at first," Quorra said. "Just try to get the feel for the music. Let it into your bones."

Sam let Quorra wiggle him around. He kept his grip on her light. "Okay."

"I know what it means now," she said as he watched her feet move and tried to follow suite.

"What?"

"This." They bumped against the bed and moved off, Quorra smiling under her breath. Sam thought he understood what to do. When she rested her head against his chest, he just kept them moving in gentle circles, like they were adrift on the ocean, being jostled by the tide.

"It's not just physical," Quorra continued. Her voice was low and meaningful. "I mean, it is for some people, but I don't think it's that way for us. It means that we like each other, so much that it's doubtful someone else will come along we'll like more. And I think you're special, so special that I want to have something with you that I don't have with anyone else. And… and I want to be with you for a long time, maybe forever, and I know it'll change me, _you'll_ change me, but I want that. Because no change I make with you can be for the worse."

His hand slid out of hers, the cusp of his palm running up her arm, over her shoulder, scuffing the strap of her dress, to her neck and then to the back of her head and then he was easing her lips against his.

"Wow," she said after. "That fits."

"We can do it again," Sam offered nonchalantly. "Or, you know… whatever." He grinned.

"Whatever sounds good."

"It should. When you think about it, you're technically a child of the 90s." He kissed her again and slid one of her shoulder straps off. She trembled instinctively. "Hey," he paused. "We don't have to—"

"I know we don't," Quorra interrupted. She pushed and pulled Sam in a dancing paroxysm. "If I'm scared, we can stop and cuddle, or talk about the weather, or dance some more. I don't want to dance anymore. I want this. I'm just a little scared it won't be… perfect."

When Quorra knotted their arms up together again, Sam stood close to her instead of letting herself be prodded back. "Why don't you just tell me what to do and I'll do it? No chance of going too fast there."

Quorra liked the sound of that. "Take your shirt off."

He did.

"Oh, I like that bit. Put it back on and then take it off."

Years of evolution made Sam side-eye to make certain he wasn't on Candid Camera, then he did as she asked.

"And… once more?"

"Are we going somewhere with this?"

"We are, we are, keep your shirt off."

Quorra gestured to the bed, where Sam sat and tried to look coquettish. Girls made it look so easy. He suspected he looked like he had gotten something in his eye while checking to see if he needed to wax his chest hair.

Quorra looked at him like he was a new piece of furniture and she didn't know quite where he'd fit with the feng shui. When an idea came to her, she literally jabbed the air with her pointer finger. "I know! You could spank me!"

"Really?" Sam asked dubiously.

"Yeah, you know… cuz I'm naughty. In a sexual way, not in a misdemeanor way. Guys like spanking girls, right?"

"I don't know… I've always found it a little counterintuitive. You see an ass that a woman has spent a lot of time toning and everything, and you wanna hit it?"

"Quit being such a baby and slap my ass!" Quorra tried a few times to spread herself out into the proper posture, complicated by the fact that her dress really wasn't meant to be bent over in. At least, not in Earth gravity.

"That is very seductive," Sam observed.

"Thank you!" Quorra said, looking more like she was doing toe-touches than volunteering for bondage. "I also ate some oysters, so that might have something to do with it."

"Not sure that's how it works. I think this is really a… lap-oriented sex act."

"Oh yeah." Quorra spread his legs a bit and rested herself on them. "Your lap doesn't have much in the way of lumbar support."

"So, uh…" As much as Sam respected Quorra as a woman, a terrifying Frisbee-killer, and a general sex goddess, she really didn't have much in the way of boo-tay. Did that make a difference when it came to spanking? Did it act as… cushioning? "Err… spanking?"

"Yeah, go ahead." Quorra wiggled her rump in a way that was actually rather arousing. Sam felt a weird sort of pride.

"You're sure?"

Quorra sighed. "Sam, you promised you'd listen to me. It's not like I'm asking you to do something unnatural, like foreplay."

So Sam spanked.

"Oww!"

"Sorry, I… there's a reason my lower back tattoo says 'Go big or go home.'"

"Oww…"

"You okay?" Sam rubbed it, which made him feel pervy in a bad way. "You want me to get some ice?"

"That _hurt_," Quorra whined.

"I don't really know any other way to spank people."

Quorra bit her lip. "But we've established I'm not a masochist! That's something!"

"Are we going to have to do this for more than one fetish? Because I am not dressing up like an animal."

"No. But I might have a fetish for you taking your shirt off. I really liked that. We should experiment with vests. Oh!" Quorra chirped suddenly. "What was that?"

"My hand. Well, technically your panties, but they're only rubbing you because of my hand."

"Ohhh…" Quorra drawled. "I didn't tell you to do that."

"You could always tell me now."

Quorra stared up at him. She looked so curious and happy and… Sam had never known he could make someone feel that way. "Do that. Do that a lot," she said.

He started to, but…

"Wait!"

Sam paused. "I've created a dominatrix."

"I just…" Quorra was slightly more discombobulated than him. "Which base are we at?"

"Third, I think." Sam moved Quorra's panties aside. "Yup, third."

"What about second?"

"We skipped that. They're not episodes of Lost, we can afford to miss them."

"No, no, let's do this right. Second base me. Second base me hard," Quorra ordered.

It took what could charitably be called breakdancing, but Sam got himself and Quorra spun around and the dress even more on the floor. She made that chirping noise again.

"Oh. You have two hands."

"Ssh. Don't tell anyone."

He kissed her mouth a last few times before deciding he could never get enough of that, so he might as well simply move on. Quorra made a pleased giggle as he kissed her neck, then a more full-throated noise when he kissed her collarbone. He moved lower.

"Sam?"

He craned his neck so he was looking up at her, his chin resting on her chest. He was actually starting to find these little interruptions endearing. Like they were on a really fun date, only instead of going to some non-sex activity, they were… the other thing.

"Yeah?"

"Could you whisper to me in the language of love?"

"Which one would that be?"

"Not sure… but not English. We have a word for people who find diapers sexy."

Foreign languages. Sam tried to cast his mind back to high school Spanish. Crap, his teachers were right, it would come in handy someday. But he was still oh for one with geometry.

"_Como estan_?" he tried.

"Oh yes," Quorra moaned. "_Como estan_ me. _Como estan_ me all night long!"

Sam tried kissing her again, although he thoughtfully gave her lips a break. He wanted to see what she made of base two and three-quarters. "_Hasta la vista_, baby. _Yo quiero_ Taco Bell… _Alejandro, Alejandra, Aly-aly-andro_… don't call my name…"

Before he could get to the bridge, the door flew open, doorknob disembodied and landing on the floor. Sam whirled around, for a moment thinking that this was what happened when you didn't put a Do Not Disturb sign up, but then he doubted room service wore ski masks and wielded automatic weapons.

"Oh," Quorra said, looking at them. "Are we going to be slutty?"


	11. The Morning After

Sam looked from the guns to Quorra, then (with difficulty) back to the guns. "Seriously, guys? You couldn't have waited a few hours? Look at this girl! I'm going to die on two and three-quarters base with _her_? Just look at her!" With that, he pulled Quorra's sheet away. While the gunmen stared, he twisted the sheet into a rope and whipped the gun out of one's hand. Quorra threw something into the other's face and he went down screaming.

"What was that?" Sam asked, finishing off his guy with a right hook.

"Shuriken." Quorra nodded. "Always bring protection on a date. Is he okay?"

"Yeah. I bet he was planning on getting his nose pierced anyway." Sam grabbed his clothes and threw them on like he was late for a booty call with Angelina Jolie. "You'd better get dressed. If mob hits go south, there's usually a back-up plan ready to go."

Quorra put on her shoes first, which was sensible, if more than a little distracting. "How do you know so much about the Mob? Do you have a _dark past_?"

"No, I just read a lot of true crime."

"My ideal man reads! Not true crime specifically, but anything not by Cassandra Clare! Do you like Harry Potter?"

"Quorra, everyone likes Harry Potter."

"I don't," a recovering mobster groaned.

Sam kicked him. "No wonder you're evil."

Sam was just hopping into his pants when a phone vibrated in one of the mobster's pants. It buzzed for a moment while Sam and Quorra froze, then bullets ripped through the door. They both threw themselves to the ground.

"Balcony!" Sam said, grabbing their coats and scrambling on all-fours for the glass sliding door. They threw it open and stepped out into the cold night air. Behind them, the door to the room buckled.

"We're going to have to jump," Sam said. "Aim for the pool."

"Oh, there's a pool!" Quorra said. "That's neat."

She hopped the railing and dropped down a few stories into it, arms at her side like she had commando training. Sam followed suit as the door burst open behind him. When he landed, the water chilled him to the bone. But then, he needed a cold shower anyway. 

* * *

Sam thought of going to the police, but one look at Quorra convinced him not to. He didn't want her cover story to be exposed to scrutiny. Any decent cop who spent five minutes with her would be convinced she was on shrooms, and not a natural high. Well, as natural as someone who was born in a computer could be.

Besides, automatic weapons, multiple gunmen… with resources like that, who was to say the cops weren't in on it? Sam made a quick call to Alan, who said he'd do what he could from his end. Alan had made a lot of friends in the law enforcement community investigating Kevin Flynn's disappearance.

"In the meantime, lay low," Alan said. "Whoever these people are, don't give them a second shot at you."

"Don't worry. I've had my fill of people trying to kill me."

From there, they stole a car (which Sam could chalk up to a 'dark past,' although he mostly just went joy-riding in campus security cars. Well, he'd give it back with a nice apology and a brick of cash in the glove compartment) and put pedal to metal.

"I'm sorry about tonight," Sam told Quorra. He rested both hands on the steering wheel and let the roar of the engine massage his frayed nerves. "Let's face it—if one of us has people trying to kill them, it's probably me.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it happens to a lot of guys."

Sam quirked his lips, but let it go when Quorra rested her head on his shoulder.

By 4 AM, they made El Paso, where an old friend was waiting. Sam knocked on the door of the double-wide until it opened.

"Hey," Jet Bradley said, looking at him. "Heeeey," he said, looking at Quorra. He noticed there wasn't much more to their wardrobe than very tightly secured coats. "You're not here to flash me, are you?"

Sam sighed. "Quorra, this is Jet. Jet, this is Quorra."

"Finally, someone with a normal name," Quorra said sotto voce.

"What can I do for you?" Jet asked. "Cuz I'll do anything that doesn't involve being out of bed for over five minutes."

"We just need a place to crash."

"I've got some camping stuff in the back." Jet blinked a little more sleep out of his eyes. "Wait, aren't you a millionaire or something?"

"Long story. We were at a hotel and—"

"It happens to a lot of guys," Quorra said preemptively. 

* * *

Sam and Quorra set up the tent while Jet went back to sleep. He'd parked his RV way off the beaten path, so there was nothing to see but the stars.

"Sorry again about tonight." Sam rolled out a sleeping bag.

"What are you talking about? We saw a movie, had dinner, went BASE jumping—"

"You're really supposed to have a parachute in BASE jumping," Sam told her, just for future reference.

"And now we're camping!" Quorra slid into her bag and zipped herself up. "If we just had a campfire and s'mores, this would be perfect."

"Still, would've been nice to give the Jacuzzi a whirl."

"Yeah." Quorra nodded to the RV. "So, who's your friend?"

"Jet? Yeah, he's Alan's kid. We grew up together. I'd trust him with anything except you."

Quorra yawned, the adrenaline leaving her body. Then she raised her head, brow furrowed. There was red on Sam's pillow. "You're bleeding."

Sam touched the wound. Just a small cut over his hairline. "Must've been a ricochet. I'll be fine."

Quorra rose and unzipped her sleeping bag in one move, letting it fall off her. "What if they come back? Can you run?"

Sam wasn't interested in a rerun of the pizza episode. "It's just a scratch, Quorra. It's not even bleeding any more.

She crouched over him. "So you can run? You can fight?"

"Yeah!"

Quorra sat back, now straddling his lap. "So you can do other things too?"

She didn't wait for an answer to work his belt out of his pants.

Sam rolled her underneath him and gave her his answer anyway. 

* * *

Sam woke up to the smell of bacon and the absence of Quorra. It was amazing how fast he'd gotten used to her body curled around his. He got up, scanning the tent for her, and saw out the open flap and through a window in the RV, Quorra's matte-black hair. Sam threw on his clothes, wincing when the collar of his shirt hit the still-ginger cut on his head, and wandered out into the desert. The Texas sun was already beating down, so he hurried to the air-conditioned RV to find Quorra working the kitchenette like she owned it, the stove top overflowing with sizzling pans. She was already halfway to a banquet and she wasn't even wearing pants. In fact, it was pretty much just slippers and an apron. That said Kiss The Cook.

And his boxers, which Sam had been wondering about. Maybe he was just a little OCD, but that seemed to be taking the 'sexy-wearing-boyfriend's clothes' a little too far.

When she saw him snitching a strip of bacon, Quorra squeaked. "You're not supposed to be up yet! I'm still preparing the first course! You have to wait until I'm flipping pancakes and singing a pop song and doing a little dance…"

He gave her a swat on the rump, which was sure to tick something on her rom-com checklist. "You don't need all that to be adorable, Quorra. Where's Jet?"

"He went into town. Something about picking up some kush to celebrate."

Sam's mind boggled at the thought of a stoned Quorra.

She made do with flipping some eggs on the skillet. "Kiss the back of my neck. It's traditional for post-coital couples in the morning hours."

He kissed her cheek, her neck, everywhere. "Where'd you learn to do that last night?"

"Urban dictionary. It's called a Schrödinger's Cat."

Grabbing some more bacon, he moved off to check the messages on his cell-phone. Alan had left one. For five minutes, Sam listened, then he shot back a quick "A-OK" text to Alan and sat on the counter facing Quorra. "Guess who just wasted a night in a tent?"

"I wouldn't say we wasted it."

Sam grinned. "True. The cops picked up those jokers who took a shot at us. A little Walker, Texas Ranger and they folded. Ed Dillinger Jr. hired them."

"How can he be evil? He's so cute!"

Sam side-eyed her. "Apparently, he'd been running some scams. With him in Finance, he could cover his tracks, but he needed to kill me to make sure I couldn't mess with his plans anymore."

"But you were leaving him alone, right?"

"Yeah." Sam took a seat. "Guess he didn't trust me. Or he was still sore about the punch. Plus, I did call him a dillweed…"

"So he's under arrest?" Quorra repeated. "Just like that?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Quorra picked up a candy heart from a dish Jet apparently owned. She ate it without even looking at the message. "So we don't have to go on the run or get fake IDs or grow facial hair?"

"Quorra, it's the real world. Not everything is a big adventure. Sometimes things just work out and… trail off, I guess."

"It just doesn't seem right." Quorra turned off the stove and sat down across from him. "This is the end, right? We're finally in a real relationship, there was sex, we beat the bad guy… there should be a big climax, and a denouncement, friends becoming enemies, enemies becoming friends…"

Sam nodded along. "A big theme? Aesop's moral?"

"Yeah! That'd be perfect!"

Sam tapped his fingers on the table as he tried to think of a moral. "Moral, moral… with great power comes great responsibility?"

"You stole that from Spider-Man!"

"He won't miss it… you got anything?"

"True love always wins out in the end!" Quorra beamed.

"That's not so much a moral as a statement, though."

"Be true to yourself, then!"

"Nah… we both kinda changed. I grew up, sorta… you stopped being such a spaz…"

"Hey!"

"I mean it in a nice way."

"Maybe we're still on the last adventure's moral. Don't strive for perfection; second-best is awesome!"

"When you put it that way…"

Quorra slouched. "Maybe there isn't a moral. Maybe this isn't even an adventure. It's just a bunch of stuff that happened."

"That seems a little… wait…" Sam sat up straighter. "Maybe that's the moral. Not everything can be a big adventure, so you have to appreciate the stuff that happens. Sure, we didn't overthrow an evil tyrant or fall in love…"

"I fell in love."

"Yeah, but that was in the computer world. The real world's been a bunch of evaluating-our-relationship and respecting-each-other-as-individuals CW network stuff."

"You've been in love with me since Tron City?" Quorra happily munched a candy heart. "Love at first sight!"

"Well, first sight after you took off that weird helmet you never wore again."

"That helmet is very fashionable inside a computer."

"So anyway, we didn't have an adventure, but we did spend a lot of time together, I got over my dad stuff, you had awesome sex. And that's really cool too."

Quorra picked up a candy heart. "'Muffin.' Aww… Wait, you aren't talking about my stomach, are you? Damn you, double-stuf Oreos!"

Sam rolled his eyes and took one himself. "'Luv me'. Thank God for emotionally open candy."

Quorra laughed. Sam never would've admitted it, but right then, in that moment, domestic tranquility—white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a minivan—it looked pretty good.

Jet burst through the door. "Okay, hey, none of you have outstanding warrant things with the FBI, right? Ooh, bacon."

Sam bolted up to grab Jet's arm as he rushed by. "Whoa, hold up. What's going on?"

"Just last week, man, I got this wild e-mail. The CIA has some kind of AI software, really serious shit. I tried to hack it, but got shut down. I thought they didn't track me, but, yeah, this would be a good time to go."

"What if there were another way to hack it?" Quorra asked. "A really cool way?"

"Oh, I'd love to find out just what the spooks have cooked up, but no way am I going it alone. Nice seeing you again, Sam, and enjoy the honeymoon, but you have to go."

Quorra was looking at Sam and making emphatic gestures with her eyebrows. After a moment, Sam gave in to the urge to grin.

"C'mon, Jet. Let's hit the arcade. But first we need to pick up some underwear, because I am not free-balling into adventure."


End file.
